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BOOKS  BY  MAXWELL  GRAY. 


Sweethearts  and  Friends. 

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teresting, the  characters  live,  the  conversations  are  natural.” — Pall 
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The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland^ 

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velously graphic  and  vital  picture  of  the  action  and  reaction  of  hu- 
man life,  ‘ Ihe  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland’  is  a book  that  is  destined 
to  an  extraordinary  recognition  and  permanent  fame  in  literature.” — 
Boston  Traveler. 

The  Reproach  of  Annesley* 

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In  the  Heart  of  the  Storm* 

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“ It  will  appeal  to  the  reader’s  conscience  as  w ell  as  to  his  curiosity, 
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thought.” — N.  Y.  Conunercial  Advertiser. 

An  Innocent  Impostor^  and  Other  Stories* 

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“These  are  all  written  with  the  pen  of  a literary  artist  who  is 
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A Costly  Freak* 

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“The  author  has  the  descriptive  and  narrative  gift  in  large  meas- 
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ment lags.” — Philadelphia  Press. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


/■  ' V 


THE  SILENCE 

OF 

DEAN  MAITLAND 

A NOVEL 


MAXWELL  GRAY 


9 


NEW  YORK 

D.  APPLETON  ANI)  COMPANY 


1898 


Authorized  edition. 


THE  SILENCE 

OP 

DEAN  MAITLAND. 


PAST  I 

“ Not  poppy,  nor  mandragora, 

Nor  all  the  drowsy  sirups  of  the  world, 
Shall  ever  medicine  thee  to  that  sweet  sleep 
Which  thou  ow’dst  yesterday.” 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  gray  afternoon  was  wearing  on  to  its  chill  close ; the  dark 
cope  of  immovable  dun  cloud  overhead  seemed  to  contract  and  grow 
closer  to  the  silent  world  beneath  it;  and  the  steep,  chalky  hill, 
leading  from  the  ancient  village,  with  its  hoary  castle  and  church, 
up  over  the  bleak,  barren  down,  was  a weary  thing  to  climb. 

The  solitary  traveler  along  that  quiet  road  moved  her  limbs  more 
slowly,  and  felt  her  breath  coming  more  quickly  and  shortly,  as  she 
mounted  higher  and  higher,  and  the  gray  Norman  tower  lessened 
and  gradually  sank  out  of  sight  behind  her.  But  she  toiled  bravely 
on  between  the  high  tangled  hedges,  draped  with  great  curtains  of 
traveler’s  joy,  now  a mass  of  the  silvery  seed-feathers  which  the 
country  children  call  “ old  man’s  beard,”  and  variegated  with  the 
deep-purple  leaves  of  dogwood,  the  crimson  of  briony  and  roseberry, 
the  gleaming  black  of  privet,  and  the  gold  and  orange  reds  of  ivy 
hangings;  and,  though  her  pace  slackened  to  a mere  crawl,  she  did 
not  pause  till  she  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill,  where  the  hedges 
ceased,  and  the  broad  white  high-road  wound  over  the  open  down. 

Here,  where  the  inclosed  land  ended,  was  a five-barred  gate  in 
the  wild  hedgerow,  and  here  the  weary  pedestrian,  depositing  the 

/I  O f oo 


4 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


numerous  parcels  she  carried  on  the  ground  at  her  feet,  rested,  her 
arms  supported  on  the  topmost  bar,  and  her  face  and  the  upper  por- 
tion of  her  tall  figure  traced  clearly  against  the  gray,  gloomy  sky. 
Some  linnets  fiuttered  out  of  the  hedge  beside  her,  one  or  two  silent 
larks  sprang  up  from  the  turf  of  the  downland  sloping  away  from 
the  gate,  and  some  rooks  sailed  cawing  overhead.  All  else  was  still 
with  the  weird,  dreamy  stillness  that  hangs  over  the  earth  on  a day 
of  chill  east-wind  haze. 

There  is  a brooding  expectancy  about  such  a day  that  works 
strongly  on  the  imagination,  and  suggests  the  dark  possibilities  of 
irresistible  Fate.  There  is  an  austere  poetry  in  the  purply  gray, 
breathless  earth,  and  the  dark,  unchanging  sky,  and  a mute  pathos 
in  the  quiet  hush  of  weary  Nature,  thus  folding  her  hands  for  rest, 
which  has  an  unutterable  charm  for  some  temperaments,  and  touches 
far  deeper  chords  than  those  vibrated  by  the  brilliance  and  joyous 
tumult  of  life  and  song  in  the  pleasant  June- time.  There  is  some- 
thing of  the  infinite  in  the  very  monotony  of  the  coloring;  the 
breathless  quiet,  the  vagueness  of  outline,  and  dimness  of  the  all- 
infolding mist  are  full  of  mystery,  and  invest  the  most  commonplace 
objects  with  interest. 

The  sense  of  infinity  was  deepened  in  this  case  by  the  vast  sweep 
of  the  horizon  which  bounded  our  pedestrian’s  gaze.  The  gray  fal- 
lows and  wan  stubble-fields  sloped  swiftly  away  from  the  gate  to  a 
bottom  of  verdant  pastures  dotted  with  trees  and  homesteads ; be' 
yond  them  were  more  dim  fields,  and  then  a wide  belt  of  forest, 
principally  of  firs.  To  the  right  the  valley,  in  which  nestled  the 
now  unseen  tower  of  Ohalkburne,  widened  out,  bounded  by  gentle 
hills,  till  the  stream  indicating  its  direction  became  a river,  on  the 
banks  of  which  stood  the  mist-veiled  town  of  Oldport,  the  tall  tower 
of  whose  church  rose  light,  white,  and  graceful  against  the  iron- 
gray  sky,  emulating  in  the  glory  of  its  maiden  youth — for  it  had  seen 
but  two  lusters — the  hoary  grandeur  of  its  Norman  parent  at  Ohalk- 
burne. Beyond  the  town,  the  river  rolled  on,  barge-laden,  to  the 
sea,  the  faint  blue  line  of  which  was  blurred  by  a maze  of  masts 
where  the  estuary  formed  a harbor. 

•To  the  left  of  the  tired  gazer  stretched  a wide  champaign,  rich 
in  woodland,  and  bounded  in  the  far  distance  by  two  chalky  sum- 
mits, at  whose  steep  bases  surged  the  unseen  sea,  quiet  to-day  on 
the  surface,  but  sullen  with  the  heavy  roar  of  the  ground-swell  be- 
neath. Here  and  there,  in  the  breaks  of  wood  and  forest  on  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


5 


horizon,  Alma’s  accustomed  eyes  saw  some  faint  gray  touches  which 
in  bright  summer  were  tiny  bays  of  sapphire  sea. 

Alma  Lee  herself  made  a bright  point  of  interest  in  the  afternoon 
grayness,  as  she  leaned  wearily,  and  not  ungracefully,  on  the  gate, 
her  face  and  figure  outlined  clearly  against  the  dark  sky.  Her  dress 
was  a bright  blue,  and  her  scarlet  plaid  shawl,  fastened  tightly  about 
her  shoulders,  revealed  and  suggested,  as  only  a shawl  can,  a full, 
supple  form,  indicative  of  youth  and  health.  Her  dark,  thick  hair 
was  crowned  by  a small  velvet  hat,  adorned  with  a bright  bird’s 
wing ; and  her  dark  eyes  and  well-formed  features,  reposeful  and 
in  different  as  they  were  at  the  moment,  suggested  latent  vehemence 
and  passion.  Her  hands  and  feet  were  large,  the  former  bare  and 
wrapped  in  the  gay  shawl  for  warmth. 

Alma  was  not  thinking  of  the  mystery  and  infinite  possibility 
suggested  by  the  gray  landscape  before  her ; still  less  was  she  dream- 
ing of  the  tragic  shades  Fate  was  casting  even  now  upon  her  com- 
monplace path.  Unsuspecting  and  innocent  she  stood,  lost  in  idle 
thought,  deaf  to  the  steps  of  approaching  doom,  and  knowing  noth- 
ing of  the  lives  that  were  to  be  so  tragically  entangled  in  the  mazes 
of  her  own.  Could  she  but  have  had  one  glimpse  of  the  swift-com- 
ing future,  with  what  horror  would  the  simple  country  girl  have 
started  back  and  struggled  against  the  first  suspicion  of  disaster  I 

The  silence  was  presently  broken  by  four  mellow,  slowly  falling 
strokes  from  the  gray  belfry  of  Chalkburne ; then  all  was  still  again, 
and  Alma  began  to  pick  up  her  parcels.  Suddenly  she  heard  the 
sound  of  hoofs  and  wheels,  and,  dropping  her  packages,  turned  once 
more  to  the  gate,  and  appeared  a very  statue  of  contemplation  by 
the  time  a dog-cart,  drawn  by  a high-stepping  chestnut,  and  driven 
by  a spick-and-span  groom,  fair-haired  and  well-featured,  drew  up 
beside  her,  and  the  groom  sprang  lightly  to  the  ground. 

“ Come,.  Alma,”  he  said,  approaching  the  pensive  figure,  which 
appeared  unconscious  of  him,  “ you  won’t  say  no  now?  You  look 
dog-tired.” 

“ I shall  say  exactly  what  I please,  Mr.  Judkins,”  she  replied. 

‘‘  Then,  say  yes,  and  jump  up.  Chestnut  is  going  like  a bird, 
and  will  have  you  at  Swaynestone  in  no  time.  Do  say  yes,  do  ee 
now.” 

“ Thank  you,  I intend  to  walk.” 

‘‘  Just  think  what  a way  it  is  to  walk  to  Swaynestone,  and  yon 
so  tired.” 


6 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


“ I am  not  tired.” 

“ Then,  why  are  you  leaning  on  that  there  gate  ? ” 

“ I am  admiring  the  view,  since  you  are  so  very  inquisitive.” 

“ O Lord ! the  view!  There’s  a deal  more  view  to  be  seen  from 
the  seat  of  this  here  cart,  and  it’s  pleasant  flying  along  like  a bird. 
Oome,  now,  Alma,  let  me  help  you  up.” 

“ Mr.  Judkins,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  drive  on  ? I said 
in  Oldport  that  1 intended  to  walk.  It’s  very  hard  a person  mayn’t 
do  as  she  pleases  without  all  this  worry,”  replied  Alma,  impatiently. 

Willful  Avoman  mun  have  her  way,”  murmured  the  young 
fellow,  ruefully.  “Well,  let  me  carry  them  parcels  home,  at 
least.” 

“I  intend  to  carry  them  myself,  thank  you.  Good  afternoon”; 
and  Alma  turned  her  back  upon  the  mortifled  youth,  and  appeared 
lost  in  the  charms  of  landscape. 

“Well,  darn  it!  if  you  won’t  come,  you  won’t;  that’s  flat!” 
the  young  man  exclaimed,  angrily.  “ This  is  your  nasty  pride.  Miss 
Alma ; but,  mind  you,  pride  goes  before  a fall,”  he  added,  springing 
to  his  perch,  and  sending  the  high  stepper  flying  along  the  level 
down  road  like  the  wind,  with  many  expressions  of  anger  and  dis- 
appointment, and  sundry  backward  glances  at  Alma,  who  gazed 
with  unruffled  steadiness  on  the  flelds. 

“ I wonder,”  she  mused,  “ why  a person  always  hates  a person 
who  makes  love  to  them  ? I liked  Charlie  Judkins  well  enough 
before  he  took  on  with  this  love  nonsense.” 

And  she  did  not  know  that  by  declining  that  brief  drive  she  had 
refused  the  one  chance  of  escaping  all  the  subsequent  tragedy,  and 
that  her  fate  was  even  now  approaching  in  the  growing  gloom. 

But  what  is  this  fairy  music  ascending  from  the  direction  of 
Chalkburne,  and  growing  clearer  and  louder  every  moment  ? Sweet, 
melodious,  drowsily  cheery,  ring  out  five  tiny  merry  peals  of  bells, 
each  peal  accurately  matched  with  the  other,  and  consisting  of  five 
tones.  The  music  comes  tumbling  down  in  sweet  confusion,  peal 
upon  peal,  chime  breaking  into  chime,  in  a sort  of  mirthful  strife  of 
melody,  through  all  which  a certain  irregular  rhythm  is  preserved, 
which  keeps  the  blending  harmonies  from  degenerating  into  dis- 
sonance. With  a sweep  and  a clash  and  a mingling  of  sleepy  rapt- 
ure, the  elfin  music  filled  all  the  quiet  hazy  air  around  Alma,  and 
inspired  her  with  vague  pleasure  as  she  turned  her  head  listening  in 
the  direction  of  the  dulcet  sounds,  and  discerned  their  origin  in  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


7 


nodding  head  of  a large,  silk-coated  cart-horse  looming  through  the 
haze. 

He  was  a handsome,  powerful  fellow,  stepping  firmly  up  the  hill 
with  the  happy  consciousness  of  doing  good  service  which  seems  to 
animate  all  willing,  well-behaved  horses,  and  emerging  into  full 
view  at  the  head  of  four  gallant  comrades,  each  nodding  and  step- 
ping as  cheerily  as  himself,  with  a ponderous  wagon  behind  them. 
Each  horse  wore  his  mane  in  love-locks,  combed  over  his  eyes,  the 
hair  on  the  massive  neck  being  tied  here  and  there  with  hows  of 
bright  woolen  ribbon.  Each  tail  was  carefully  plaited  at  its  spring 
from  the  powerful  haunches  for  a few  inches;  then  it  was  tied  with 
another  bright  knot,  beneath  which  the  remainder  of  the  tail  swept 
in  untrammeled  abundance  almost  down  to  the  pasterns,  the  latter 
hidden  by  long  fringes  doming  to  the  ground..  The  ponderous  har- 
ness shone  brightly  on  the  broad,  shining  brown  bodies,  and,  as 
each  horse  carried  a leading-rein,  thickly  studded  with  brass  bosses 
and  fastened  to  the  girth,  and  there  "was  much  polished  brass  about 
headstall,  saddle,  and  collar,  they  presented  a very  glittering  appear- 
ance. 

But  the  crowning  pride  of  every  horse,  and  the  source  of  all  the 
music  which  was  then  witching  the  wintry  air,  was  the  lofty  erec- 
tion springing  on  two  branching  wires  from  every  collar,  and  tow- 
ering far  above  the  pricked  ears  of  the  proud  steeds.  These  wires 
bore  a long,  narrow  canopy  placed  at  right  angles  to  the  horse’s 
length,  and  concealing  beneath  a deep  fringe  of  bright  scarlet 
worsted  the  little  peal  of  nicely  graduated  bells.  Balls  of  the  same 
bright  worsted  studded  the  roof  of  the  little  canopy,  and  finished 
the  gay  trappings  of  the  sturdy  rustics,  who  bore  these  accumulated 
honors  with  a sort  of  meek  rapture. 

The  wagon  these  stout  fellows  drew  needed  “all  their  bone  and 
sinew  to  bring  it  up  and  down  the  steep,  hilly  roads.  Its  hind 
wheels  were  as  high  as  Alma’s  head;  their  massive  felloes,  shod 
with  double  tires,  were  a foot  broad ; the  naves  were  like  moderate- 
sized casks.  High  over  the  great  hind  wheels  arched  the  wagon’s 
ledge  in  a grand  sweep,  descending  with  a boat-like  curve  to  the 
smaller  front  wheels,  whence  it  rose  again,  ending  high  over  the 
wheeler’s  haunches,  like  the  prow  of  some  old  ship  over  the  sea. 
A massive  thing  of  solid  timber  it  was,  with  blue  wheels  and  red 
body,  slightly  toned  by  weather.  On  the  front,  in  red  letters  on  a 
yellow  ground,  was  painted,  “Richard  Long,  Malbourne,  1860.” 


8 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


Two  human  beings,  who  interrupted  the  fairy  music  with  strange 
gutturals  and  wild  ejaculations  to  the  steeds,  mingled  with  sharp 
whip-cracks,  accompanied  this  imposing  equipage.  One  was  a tall, 
straight-limbed  man  in  fustian  jacket  and  trousers,  a coat  slung  hus- 
sar-wise from  his  left  shoulder,  and  a cap  worn  slightly  to  one  side, 
with  a pink  chrysanthemum  stuck  in  it.  His  sunburned  face  was 
almost  the  hue  of  his  yellow-brown  curls  and  short  beard ; his  eyes 
were  blue ; and  his  strong,  labored  gait  resembled  that  of  his  horses. 
The  other  was  a beardless  lad,  his  satellite,  similarly  arrayed,  minus 
the  flower.  Sparks  flew  from  the  road  when  the  iron  hoofs  and 
heavy  iron  boots  struck  an  occasional  flint.  When  the  great  wagon 
was  fairly  landed  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  the  horses  were  brought- 
to  by  means  of  sundry  strange  sounds  and  violent  gestures  on  the 
part  of  the  men,  and  with  creaking  and  groaning  and  hallooing  the 
great  land-ship  came  to  anchor,  the  elfln  chimes  dropped  into  silence, 
interrupted  by  little  bursts  of  melody  at  every  movement  of  the 
horses,  and  the  lad  seized  a great  wooden  mallet  and  thrust  beneath 
the  hind  wheel.  The  carter  leaned  placidly  against  the  ponderous 
shaft  with  his  face  to  Alma,  and  struck  a match  to  kindle  his  re- 
plenished pipe. 

“ Coldish,”  he  observed,  glancing  with  surly  indinerence  toward 
her. 

“ It  is  cold,”  returned  Alma,  drawing  her  shawl  cozily  round 
her  graceful  shoulders ; while  the  wheeler,  stimulated  into  curiosity 
by  his  master’s  voice,  turned  round  to  look  at  Alma,  and  shook  out 
a little  peal  of  bells,  which  roused  the  emulation  of  his  four  broth- 
ers, who  each  shook  out  a little  chime  on  his  own  account;  while 
the  wagoner  glanced  slowly  round  the  vast  horizon,  and,  after  some 
contemplation,  said  in  a low,  bucolic  drawl : 

“ Gwine  to  hrain,  I ’lows.” 

“ It  looks  like  it,”  replied  Alma.  “ How  is  your  wife,  William  ? ” 

The  wagoner  again  interrogated  the  horizon  for  inspiration,  and, 
after  some  thought,  answered  with  a jerk,  ‘‘Heuce  the  same.” 

“I  hope  she  will  soon  be  about  again,”  said  Alma;  and  the 
leader  emphasized  her  words  by  shaking  a little  music  from  his  can- 
opy, and  thus  stimulated  his  brothers  to  do  likewise.  “ You  come 
home  lighter  than  you  set  out,”  she  added,  looking  at  the  nearly 
empty  wagon,  which  she  had  seen  pass  in  the  morning  filled  with 
straw. 

William  turned  slowly  round  and  gazed  inquiringly  at  the  wagon, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


9 


as  if  struck  by  a new  idea,  for  some  moments ; then  he  said,  “ Ay.” 
After  this  he  looked  thoughtfully  at  Alma  and  her  parcels  for  some 
moments,  until  his  soul  again  found  expression  in  the  words,  “ Like 
a lift?  ” the  vague  meaning  of  which  was  elucidated  by  the  pointing 
of  his  whip  toward  the  wagon. 

Alma  assented,  and.  with  the  wagoner’s  assistance  soon  found 
herself,  with  all  her  merchandise,  comfortably  installed  in  the  great 
wagon,  which  was  empty  save  for  a few  household  and  farming 
necessaries  from  Oldport.  Before  mounting — a feat,  by  the  way, 
not  unworthy  of  a gymnast — she  stroked  the  wheel-horse’s  thick, 
silken  coat  admiringly. 

“You  do  take  care  of  your  horses  at  Malbourne,  William,”  she 
said.  “ I heard  father  say  this  morning  he  never  saw  a better- 
groomed  and  handsomer  team  than  yours.” 

William  went  on  silently  arranging  Alma’s  seat,  and  stowing  her 
parcels  for  her;  but  a smile  dawmed  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth, 
and  gradually  spread  itself  over  the  whole  of  his  face,  and  his 
pleasure  at  length  found  a vent,  when  he  reached  the  ground,  in  a 
sounding  tliwack  of  his  broad  hand  on  the  wheeler’s  massive  flank 
— a thwack  that  set  the  bells  a- tremble  on  the  horse’s  neck,  and 
sent  a sympathetic  shiver  of  music  through  all  the  emulous  brother- 
hood. 

“ Ay,”  he  observed,  with  a broad  smile  of  admiration  along  the 
line  of  softly  swaying  tails  and  gently  moving  heads,  with  their 
nostrils  steaming  in  the  cold  air;  “he  med  well  say  that.” 

“Ay,”  echoed  Jem,  the  satellite,  removing  the  sledge-mallet 
from  the  wheel  and  striding  to  the  front,  with  a reflection  of  his 
chief’s  pleasure  in  his  ruddy  face  as  he  glanced  affectionately  at  the 
team,  “that  he  med:” 

It  was  not  Alma’s  admiration  which  evoked  such  satisfaction — 
she  was  but  a woman,  and  naturally  could  not  tell  a good  horse 
from  a donkey;  but  her  father,  Ben  Lee,  Sir  Lionel  Swaynestone’s 
coachman,  a man  who  had  breathed  the  air  of  stables  from  his 
cradle,  and  who  drove  the  splendid  silk-coated,  silver-harnessed 
steeds  in  the  Swaynestone  carriages,  his  opinion  was  something. 
With  a joyous  crack  of  the  whip,  and  a strange  sound  from  the 
recesses  of  his  throat,  William  bid  his  team  “ Gee-up ! ” 

The  mighty  hoofs  took  hold  of  the  road,  the  great  wheels  slowly 
turned,  a shower  of.  confused  harmony  fell  in  dropping  sweetness 
from  the  bells,  and  with,  creaking  and  groaning,  and  nodding  heads, 


10 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


and  rhythmic  blending  of  paces  and  music,  the  wagon  lumbered 
ponderously  along  the  level  chalk  road  which  led,  uninclosed  by 
hedge  or  fence,  over  the  open  down. 

To  ride  in  a wagon  with  ease,  and  at  the  same  time  enjoy  the 
surrounding  landscape  without  a constant  exercise  of  gymnastic 
skill  in  balancing  and  counter-balancing  the  body  in  response  to 
the  heavy  swaying  and  jerking  of  the  unwieldy  machine,  is  diflS- 
cult ; to  sit  on  the  ledge  is  to  be  an  acrobat ; to  lie  on  the  floor  is 
to  see  nothing  but  sky,  besides  having  one’s  members  violently 
wrenched  one  from  the  other.  Alma,  however,  was  very  comfort- 
ably placed  on  a pile  of  sacks,  which  served  as  an  arm-chair,  dead- 
ened the  jerking  power  of  the  motion,  and  left  her  head  and 
shoulders  above  the  ledge,  so  that  she  could  well  see  the  gray 
surrounding  landscape  in  the  deepening  haze. 

She  leaned  back  with  a feeling  of  agreeable  languor,  wrapped 
her  hands  in  her  shawl,  and  gazed  dreamily  on  the  down  rising 
steeply  to  the  left,  and  forming,  where  chalk  had  been  quarried  in 
one  place,  a miniature  precipice,  crested  with  overhanging  copse, 
rich  in  spring  with  fairy  treasures  of  violets  in  white  sheets  over 
the  moss,  clusters  of  primroses  and  oxlips  among  the  hazel-stumps, 
blue  lakes  of  hyacinth,  and  waving  forests  of  anemone;  and  she 
gazed  on  the  sloping  fields,  farmsteads,  and  bounding  forest  to  the 
right,  lulled  by  the  steady  music  of  the  bells,  among  which  she 
heard  from  time  to  time  William’s  satisfied  growl  of  “ Ay,  he  med 
well  say  that,”  and  the  occasional  song  of  Jem,  as  he  trudged  along 
by  the  leader : 

“ For  to  plow,  and  to  sow,  and  to  reap,  and  to  mow, 

Is  the  work  of  the  farmer’s  bu-oy-oy.” 

Happy  and  harmless  she  looked  in  her  rustic  chariot,  as  they 
rolled  slowly  along  in  the  gathering  gloom,  now  over  a heathy 
stretch  nearly  at  the  summit  of  the  down,  past  a lonely,  steep- 
roofed,  red-tiled  hostelry,  with  a forge  cheerily  glowing  by  its  side, 
whence  the  anvil-music  rose  and  blended  pleasantly  with  that  of 
the  bell-team,  and  over  which  hung  a sign-board  bearing  the  black- 
smith’s arms,  the  hammer,-  with  the  couplet  inscribed  beneath,  “By 
hammer  and  hand.  All  arts  do  stand.” 

Down-hill  now,  with  the  heavy  drag  cast  beneath  the  wheel  by 
mighty  efforts  on  the  part  of  Jem ; then  again  on  the  level  road, 
with  the  chalk  down  always  rising  to  the  left,  and  falling  away  to 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND. 


11 


the  right ; past  farm-houses,  where  the  cattle  stood  grouped  iu  the 
yard,  and  the  ducks  quacked  for  their  evening  meal;  then  once 
more  down  a hill,  steep  and  difficult,  down  to  the  level  of  a willow- 
shaded  stream  by  a copse,  outside  which  daffodils  rioted  all  over 
the  sloping  lea  descending  to  the  brook-side  in  spring;  and  then 
again  up  and  up,  with  straining  and  panting  and  creaking,  with  iron 
feet  pointed  into  and  gripping  the  steep  chalk  road,  with  louder 
pealing  of  the  fairy  chimes,  whose  rhythm  grows  irregular  and  fit- 
ful, with  strange  shouts  and  gestures  from  the  men,  with  “ Whupl  ” 
and  “Whoa!”  and  “Hither!”  with  many  pauses,  when  the  great 
heads  droop,  the  music  stops,  and  the  mallet  is  brought  into  requi- 
sition. 

Happy  and  harmless,  indeed,  was  Alma,  the  lashes  drooping  over 
her  rose-leaf  cheeks,  her  fancies  roving  unfettered.  She  was  hoping 
to  get  home  betimes,  for  she  had  something  nice  for  father’s  tea 
among  her  parcels,  and  she  was  thinking  of  the  penny  periodical 
folded  up  in  her  basket,  and  wondering  how  the  heroine  was  get- 
ting on  in  the  story  which  broke  off  abruptly  at  such  an  interesting 
moment  in  the  last  number.  Was  the  peasant  girl,  in  whom  Alma 
detected  a striking  likeness  to  herself,  really  going  to  marry  the 
poor  young  viscount  who  was  so  deplorably  in  love  with  her?  She 
could  not  help  furnishing  the  viscount  with  the  form  and  features 
of  Mr.  Ingram  Swaynestone,  Sir  Lionel’s  eldest  son,  though  the 
latter  was  fair,  while  the  viscount  happened  to  be  dark. 

Now  they  are  at  the  summit  of  the  steep  hill,  and  pause  to 
breathe  and  replenish  pipes.  On  one  side  is  dense  coppice ; on  the 
other,  Swaynestone  Park  slopes  down  in  woodland,  glade,  and 
park-like  meadow  to  the  sea-bounded  horizon.  Then  on  again, 
up  hill  and  down  dale,  past  cottage  and  farmstead,  with  the  park 
always  sloping  away  to  the  sea  on  the  right.  Lights  glow  cheerily 
now  from  distant  cottage  windows,  and  they  can  even  catch  glimpses 
of  lights  from  the  fagade  of  Swaynestone  House  between  the  trees 
occasionally,  while  the  merry  music  peals  on  in  its  drowsy  rhythm, 
and  little  showers  of  sparks  rise  at  the  contact  of  iron-shod  wheel 
and  foot  with  the  flinty  road. 

They  have  just  passed  the  entranqp-gates  of  Swaynestone — 
lonely  gates,  unfurnished  with  a lodge — and  the  wagon  stops  with 
interrupted  music  at  some  smaller  gates  on  the  other  side  of  tho 
road,  where  the  upland  still  rises,  not  in  bare  down,  but  in  rich 
meadow,  to  a hanging  wood,  out  of  which  peeps  dimly  in  the  dusk 


12 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


li  small  white  structure,  built  with  a colonnade  supporting  an  archi 
trave,  to  imitate  a Greek  temple — Alma’s  home. 

‘‘  Ay ! he  med  well  say  that,”  repeated  the  wagoner,  still  digest- 
ing the  pleasure  of  Ben  Lee’s  compliment,  and  slapping  the  wheel- 
horse’s  vast  flank,  so  that  the  fairy  chime  began  again,  and  the 
smack  resounded  like  an  accompaniment  to  its  music.  It  was  fairly 
dark  in  the  road ; the  misty  dusk  of  evening  was  overshadowed  by 
the  thick  belt  of  chestnut,  lime,  and  beech  bounding  the  park  by 
the  road-side ; and  the  large  horn  lantern  was  handed  to  Alma  to 
aid  her  in  gathering  her  parcels  together,  and  its  light  fell  upon  her 
bright  dark  eyes,  and  rosy,  dimpled  cheeks,  making  her  appear  more 
than  ever  as  if  her  gaudy  dress  was  but  a disguise  assumed  for  a 
frolic.  Her  almond-shaped,  rather  melancholy  eyes  sparkled  as  she 
looked  in  the  young  carter’s  stolid  face,  and  thanked  him  heartily. 

“I  have  had  such  a nice  ride,”  she  added  pleasantly,  and  the 
horses  one  by  one  dropped  a bell-note  or  two  to  emphasize  her 
words. 

“You  must  gie  I a toll  for  this  yere  ride,”  returned  William, 
with  a look  of  undisguised  but  not  rude  admiration. 

Alma  flushed,  and  drew  back.  “How  much  do  you  want?” 
she  asked,  taking  out  her  purse,  and  pretending  not  to  understand. 

“ You  put  that  there  in  your  pocket,”  he  replied,  offended,  “ and 
gie  I a kiss.” 

“Indeed,  I shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,”  retorted  Alma.  “Let 
me  get  down.  I’ll  never  ride  with  you  again,  if  I walk  till  I drop 
— that  I won’t ! ” 

But  the  wagoner  insisted  on  his  toll,  and  vowed  that  she  should 
not  descend  till  it  was  paid  ; and  poor  Alma  protested  and  stormed 
vainly,  while  Jem  leaned  up  against  a horse  and  laughed,  and  ad- 
jured her  to  make  haste.  Alma  burst  into  tears,  wrung  her  hands, 
and  wished  that  she  had  not  been  so  obdurate  to  poor  Charlie 
Judkins.  He  would  not  have  been  so  rude,  she  knew.  Nor,  in- 
deed, would  William  have  been  so  persistent  had  she  not  offended 
him  by  her  unlucky  offer  of  money,  and  roused  the  dogged  obstinacy 
of  his  class.  She  darted  to  the  other  side  of  the  wagon,  hut  in 
vain;  William  was  too  quick,  and  she  was  just  on  the  point  of  rais- 
ing her  voice  in  the  hope  that  her  father  might  be  near,  when  a 
light,  Arm  step  was  heard  issuing  from  the  park-gates,  and  a clear 
and  singularly  musical  voice  broke  into  the  dispute  with  a tone  of 
authority. 


THE  SILEHCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


13 


“For  shame,  William  Grove!  ” it  said.  “How  can  you  be  so 
cowardly  ? Let  the  girl  go  directly.  Why,  it  is  Alma  Lee, 
surely ! ’’ 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  speaker  emerged  into  the  little  circle  of  light  cast  by  the 
lantern — a slight,  well-built,  youthful  figure  of  middle  height  yet 
commanding  presence,  clad  in  dark  gray,  with  a round,  black  straw 
hat  and  a neat  white  necktie,  the  frequent  costume  of  a country 
curate  in  those  days,  when  the  clerical  garb  had  not  reached  so 
high  a stage  of  evolution  as  at  present.  His  beardless  face  made 
him  look  still  younger  than  he  really  was  ; his  features  were  refined 
and  clearly  cut ; his  hair  very  dark ; and  his  eyes,  the  most  striking 
feature  of  his  face,  were  of  that  rare,  dazzling  light  blue  which  can 
only  be  compared  to  a cloudless  noon  sky  in  June,  when  the  pale, 
intense  blue  seems  penetrated  to  overflowing  with  floods  of  vivid  ligljt. 

“I  waren’t  doing  no  harm,”  returned  the  wagoner,  with  a kind 
of  surly  respect ; “ I gied  she  a ride,  and  she  med  so  wfill  gie  I a 
kiss.” 

“And  you  a married  man!  ” cried  the  indignant  young  deacon; 
“ for  shame!  ” 

. “ There  ain’t  no  harm  in  a kiss,”  growled  William,  with  a sheep- 
ish, discomforted  look,  while  he  stood  aside  and  suffered  the  new- 
comer to  help  Alma  in  her  descent. 

“ There  is  great  harm  in  insulting  a respectable  young  woman, 
and  taking  advantage  of  her  weakness.  As  for  a kiss,  it  is  not  a 
seemly  thing  between  young  people  who  have  no  claim  on  each 
other,  though  there  may  be  no  positive  harm  in  it.  You  ought  to 
know  better,  William.” 

“There  ain’t  no  harm  for  the  likes  of  we,”  persisted  the 
wagoner.  “ ’Tain’t  as  though  Alma  was  a lady  ; she’s  only  a poor 
man’s  daughter.” 

“And  a poor  man’s  daughter  has  as  much  right  to  men’s  respect 
as  a duchess,”  cried  the  young  fellow,  with  animation.  “ I wonder 
you  can  say  such  a thing,  Grove.  And  you  a poor  man  yourself, 
with  a little  daughter  of  your  own ! How  would  you  like  her  to 
be  kissed  against  her  will  ? ” 


14 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


William  muttered  to  the  effect  that  “ Anybody  med  kiss  she 
which  was  true  enough,  as  she  had  seen  hut  three  summers  yet— 
and  went  on  twining  his  whip  with  a cowed,  injured  look,  while 
Alma  gazed  in  awed  admiration  at  her  handsome  young  champion, 
whose  kindling  eyes  seemed  to  send  forth  floods  of  pale-blue  light 
in  the  gloom. 

‘‘There  is  something  so  unmanly  in  attacking  a girl’s  self- 
respect,”  continued  the  eager  champion.  “I  did  not  think  you 
capable  of  it,  William.  A stout  fellow  like  you,  a man  I always 
liked.  Go  home  to  your  wife,  and  think  better  of  it.— I will  see 
you  across  the  meadow  myself,  Alma,  though  it  is  hard  that  a girl 
can  not  he  abroad  alone  at  this  hour.” 

So  saying,  the  young  Bayard  possessed  himself  of  sundry  of 
Alma’s  parcels,  and  with  a pleasant  “Good-night,  Jem,”  turned 
his  back  on  the  wagon  and  opened  the  gate,  through  which  Alma 
passed  quickly,  followed  by  her  protector,  while  the  cumbrous 
wagon  went  on  its  way  to  the  rhythmic  jangle  of  the  sweetly 
clashing  hells,  and  William  trudged  stolidly  on  with  his  accustomed 
whip-crackings  and  guttural  exclamations,  murmuring  from  time  to 
time  with  a mortifled  air,  “ There  ain’t  no  harm  in  a kiss ! ” And, 
indeed,  he  meant  no  harm,  though  he  took  care  not  to  relate  the 
incident  to  his  wife ; it  was  only  his  rough  tribute  to  Alma’s  unac- 
customed beauty,  and  signified  no  more  than  a gracefully  turned 
allusion  in  higher  circles.  “ And  Mr.  Cyril  must  go  a-spiling  of 
she,”  he  added,  “ as  though  she  didn’t  look  too  high  already.  But 
pride  goes  before  a fall,  as  I've  heerd  ’un  zay.”  Ominous  repeti- 
tion of  Judkins’s  words! 

Alma,  in  the  mean  time,  murmured  her  thanks  to  her  chivalrous 
protector,  and  stepped  up  the  dewy  meadow  with  a beating  breast 
and  a flushing  cheek,  her  ears  tingling  with  the  words,  “ A poor 
man’s  daughter  has  as  much  right  to  respect  as  a duchess,”  her 
heart  swelling  at  the  memory  of  the  courtesy  with  which  Maitland 
handed  her  down  from  the  wagon  and  carried  half  her  parcels;  she 
knew  that  a veritable  duchess  would  not  have  been  treated  with 
more  honor.  All  her  life  she  had  known  Cyril  Maitland.  She  had 
sported  with  him  over  that  very  lea,  where  the  tall  yellow  cowslips 
nodded  in  spring,  and  where  they  had  pelted  each  other  with 
sweet,  heavy  cowslip-balls ; she  had  kissed  and  cuffed  him  many  a 
time,  though  he  was  always  “ Master  Cyril  ” to  the  coachman’s 
child;  and,  as  they  grew  up,  had  been  inclined  to  discuss  him 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAAD. 


15 


with  a half-respectful,  half-familiar  disparagement,  such  as  well- 
kno-^v-n  objects  receive.  Never  till  that  fatal  evening  had  his  grace 
of  mind  and  person  and  the  singular  charm  of  his  manner  keenly 
touched  her.  But  when  he  stood  there  in  the  lantern’s  dim  rays, 
looking  so  handsome  and  so  animated  by  the  impulsive  chivalry 
with  which  he  defended  her,  and  she  heard  the  musical  tones  and 
refined  accents  of  the  voice  pleading  her  cause  and  the  cause  of  her 
sex  and  her  class,  a new  spirit  came  to  her — a spirit  of  sweetness 
and  of  terror,  which  set  all  her  nerves  quivering,  and  opened  a new 
world  of  wonder  and  beauty  to  her  entranced  gaze.  As  holy  as  a 
young  archangel,  and  as  beautiful,  he  seemed  to  the  simple  girl’s 
dazzled  thoughts,  and  she  felt  that  no  harm  could  ever  come  to  her 
in  that  charmed  presence,  no  pain  ever  touch  her. 

All  unconscious  of  the  tumult  of  half-conscious  emotion  awaken- 
ing beside  him,  Cyril  Maitland  walked  on,  chatting  with  pleasant 
ease  on  all  sorts  of  homely  topics,  in  no  wise  surprised  at  his  com- 
panion’s faltering,  incoherent  replies,  which  he  attributed  to  the 
embarrassment  from  which  he  had  just  delivered  her.  The  dulcet 
clashing  of  the  bells  grew  fainter,  and  then  rose  on  a sudden  gust 
of  wind  just  as  they  reached  the  door  of  the  strangely  built  white 
house,  before  the  square  windows  of  which  rose  a small  colonnade 
of  white  pillars.  Alma  opened  the  door,  and  a ruddy  glow  rushed 
out  upon  her,  while  within  a cheerful  little  home-scene  presented 
itself.  A small  table,  covered  with  a clean  white  cloth,  touched 
with  rose  by  the  firelight,  and  spread  with  tea-things,  was  drawn 
up  before  the  glowing  hearth,  and  a warm  aroma  of  tea  and  toast 
greeted  the  tired,  hungry  girl.  Before  the  fire  sat  a strong,  middle- 
aged  man  in  an  undress  livery,  consisting  partly  of  a sleeved  waist- 
coat, busily  engaged  in  making  toast;  while  a neatly  dressed  woman 
moved  about  the  warm  parlor,  adding  a few  touches  to  the  table. 

“Just  in  time,  Alma,”  called  out  the  man,  without  turning  his 
head. 

“And  a pretty  time,  too,”  added  the  woman,  who  was  Alma’s 
step-mother.  “ Why  hadn’t  you  a come  along  with  Charlie  Judkins 
this  hour  agone?  Gadding  about  till  it’s  dark  night — O Mr.  Cyril, 
I beg  your  pardon,  sir!  ” and  she  dropped  a courtesy,  while  her  hus- 
band turned  and  rose. 

“ May  I come  in?  ” asked  Cyril,  pausing,  hat  in  hand,  and  smiling 
his  genial  smile.  “Your  tea  is  very  tempting,  Mrs.  Lee.” 

“ Come  in  and  welcome,  Master  Cyril,”  said  the  coachman,  as 
2 


16 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


Cjril,  with  the  air  of  an  accustomed  guest,  placed  his  hat  on  a side- 
table  adorned  with  the  family  Bible,  work-boxes,  and  tea-trays, 
and  took  the  chair  Mrs.  Lee  handed  him. 

“ Why,  I’ve  not  had  tea  with  you  for  an  age,”  continued  Cyril, 
stroking  a large  tabby  cat,  which  sprang  purring  upon  his  knee  the 
moment  he  was  seated ; “ and  I don’t  deserve  any  now,  since  I come 
straight  from  the  drawing-room  at  Swaynestone,  where  the  rites  of 
the  tea-pot  were  being  celebrated.  But  the  ladies  there  have  no 
idea  of  tea -making,  and  I only  had  two  cups,  and  was  tantalized 
with  a vague  sketch  of  a piece  of  bread  and  butter.” 

“Well,  you  always  were  a rare  one  for  tea.  Master  Cyril,”  re- 
turned his  hostess.  “If  I had  but  known  you  were  coming,  I’d  ’a 
made  some  of  them  hot  cakes.  But  there’s  jam  in  plenty,  some 
blackberry  as  Alma  made  this  fall.” 

“Alma  came  by  Long’s  wagon,”  he  explained,  when  she  had 
withdrawn  to  lay  aside  her  hat  and  shawl;  “and  as  I chanced  to 
be  at  the  gate  when  she  got  down,  I saw  her  across  the  meadow.” 

“ Thank  ’ee  kindly.  Master  Cyril.  I don’t  like  her  to  be  out 
alone  at  nights,”  said  Ben  Lee,  “ though,  to  be  sure,  there’s  only 
our  own  people  about  on  the  estate.” 

Before  Alma’s  mind  there  arose  a vision  of  the  Swaynestone 
drawing-room  as  she  had  seen  it  once  at  tea-time  when  she  was 
Bummoned  to  speak  to  the  young  ladies  about  some  needlework  she 
was  doing  for  them.  She  saw  in  imagination  the  long  range  of  win- 
dows with  their  rich  curtains ; the  mirrors  and  couches  ; the  cabi- 
nets filled  with  rare  and  costly  iTic-d-hrac ; the  statuettes  and  pict- 
ures ; the  painted  ceiling  of  the  long,  lofty  room ; the  beautiful 
chimney-piece  of  sculptured  Parian  marble ; the  rich  glow  from  the 
hearth  throwing  all  kinds  of  warm  reflections  upon  the  splendid 
apartment,  and  principally  upon  the  little  table,  laden  with  silver 
and  priceless  china,  by  the  fire;  and  the  charming  group  of  ladies 
in  their  stylish  dress  and  patrician  beauty,  half  seen  in  the  fire-lit 
dusk.  It  was  a world  of  splendor  to  Alma’s  unaccustomed  eyes — a 
place  in  which  an  ordinary  mortal  could  in  no  wise  sit  down  with 
any  comfort,  without,  indeed,  a something  almost  amounting  to 
sacrilege;  a world  in  which  the  perfume  of  hot-house  flowers  took 
away  the  bated  breath,  and  in  which  no  footfall  dared  echo,  where 
voices  were  low  and  musical,  and  manners  full  of  courteous  ease  ; a 
world  inhabited  by  beings  untouched  by  common  cares,  with  other 
thouglits,  and  softer,  more  beautifully  adorned  lives ; a world  which 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


17 


Alma  entered  with  a burdensome  sense  of  being  out  of  place,  in 
which  she  only  spoke  w^hen  spoken  to,  and  where  she  heard  herself 
discussed  as  if  she  were  a thing  without  hearing. 

“What ! is  this  Lee’s  daughter?  ” Lady  Swayuestone  had  asked, 
putting  up  her  gold-rimmed  glasses,  and  taking  a quiet  survey  of 
Alma  and  her  blushes. 

“ Surely  you  remember  little  Alma  Lee,  mother,”  Ethel  Swayne- 
stone  replied.  “ She  has  shot  up,  you  see,  like  the  Test  of  us.” 

“ Ab,  to  be  sure  ! How  the  time  goes,  Ethel ! How  is  your 
mother,  Alma  ? And  she  is  embroidering  Maude’s  handkerchiefs  ? 
A very  nice  employment  for  a young  woman.  But  I don’t  like  her 
gown;  it  is  far  too  smart  for  a coachman’s  daughter.” 

“ Nonsense,  mother  dear.  Why  shouldn’t  she  be  smart,  if  she 
likes?  But  if  you  want  really  to  look  nice,  Alma,  you  must  not 
wear  violet  and  pale  blue  together,”  said  the  fair-haired  Maude,  with 
a sweet  look  of  interest  in  Alma’s  appearance  that  won  her  heart, 
wounded  as  it  was  by  “her  ladyship’s”  want  of  consideration. 

Very  glad  was  Alma  to  retire  from  that  august  presence — almost 
as  glad  as  she  had  been  to  enter  it.  And  Mr.  Cyril  bad  walked 
straight  from  the  splendid  apartment,  from  the  light  of  Miss  Ethel 
and  Miss  Maude’s  eyes,  and  the  sound  of  their  sweet,  cultured  voices, 
with  a disparaging  remark  upon  their  tea,  and  chosen  Alma’s  own 
humble  every-day  dwelling  and  homely  meal  in  the  narrow  room  in 
preference.  This  filled  her  with  a strange,  indefinable  emotion, 
half  pleasure  and  half  pain.  Some  instinct  told  her  that  he  was  the 
same  welcomed,  admired  guest  there  as  here  ; that  he  spoke  with 
the  same  easy  charm  to  Lady  Swaynestone  and  her  daughters  and 
the  high-born  visitors  he  chanced  to  meet  there,  as  to  her  parents 
and  herself.  And  could  her  imagination  have  borne  her  into  Cyril’s 
future,  she  would  have  seen  him,  as  he  subsequently  was,  a wel- 
comed frequent  guest  at  royal  tables,  where  his  beautiful  voice  and 
perfect  manner  cast  the  same  glamour  over  the  palace  atmosphere  as 
over  that  of  the  coachman’s  little  dwelling. 

Quickly  as  Alma  returned  to  the  parlor,  she  yet  found  time  to 
arrange  her  rich  hair  and  add  a necklace  of  amber  beads,  thus  im- 
parting a kind  of  gypsy  splendor  to  her  dark  face,  and  other  little 
trifles  to  her  dress ; and  very  handsome  she  looked  in  the  firelight 
— for  the  one  candle  but  emphasized  the  gloom — with  that  new 
'sparkle  in  her  eyes  and  flush  on  her  cheek.  It  was  Cyril  who  rec- 
ommended, her  to  toast  the  sausages  she  had  brought  from  Oldport 


18 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


instead  of  frying  them ; he  and  Lilian  had  often  cooked  them  so  in 
the  school-room  at  home,  he  said,  when  Mrs.  Lee  demurred  at  trust- 
ing to  his  culinary  skill.  It  was  Cyril  also  who  suggested  the  agree- 
able addition  of  cold  potatoes  warmed  up. 

“Well,  Master  Cyril,  I never  thought  to  see  you  teach  my  wife 
cooking,”  laughed  Ben,  paying  a practical  compliment  to  his  skill, 
“ Hand  Master  Cyril  some  tea,  Alma ; and  do  you  taste  the  sau- 
sages, my  girl.  Why,  where’s  your  appetite  after  tramping  all  the 
way  into  Oldport,  and  nothing  hut  a bit  of  bread  and  cheese  since 
breakfast?  You  sha’n’t  walk  there  and  back  again  any  more  ; that 
and  the  shopping  is  too  much.  And  so  you  came  along  part  of  the 
way  in  Long’s  wagon,  when  you  might  have  been  tooled  along  by 
the  best  horse  in  our  stables,  and  Judkins  fit  to  cry  about  it. — Now^ 
don’t  you  call  that  silly,  Mr.  Cyril?  ” 

“Every  one  to  his  taste,  Ben.  I prefer  the  dog-cart.” 

“ And  it  ain’t  every  day  a girl  like  Alma  gets  a chance  of  riding 
behind  such  a horse  or  beside  such  a young  man,”  added  Mrs.  Lee^ 
severely.  “ But  there’s  people  as  never  knows  where  their  bread’s 
buttered.” 

“There  are  people,”  said  Alma,  with  a toss  of  her  graceful  head, 
“ as  know  what  they’ve  a mind  to  do,  and  do  it.” 

“ And  there’s  headstrong  girls  as  lives  to  repent,”  retorted  th^ 
step- mother. 

“Ay,  you  was  always  a willful  one,  Alma,”  said  her  father; 
“but  if  you  don’t  look  out  you’ll  be  a old  maid,  and  you  won’t  like 
that.  And  a smarter  fellow  than  Charlie  Judkins  never  crossed  a 
horse.  No  drink  with  Charlie — goes  to  church  regular,  and  has  a 
matter  of  fifty  pound  in  the  bank,  and  puts  by  every  week.  And 
Sir  Lionel  ready  to  find  him  a cottage  and  raise  his  wages  when  he 
marries.” 

“Well,  let  him  marry,  then,”  returned  Alma,  airily;  “/don’t 
want  to  prevent  him.  I dare  say  Mr.  Cyril  would  be  kind  enough 
to  perform  the  ceremony  if  he  wished  it.” 

“I  should  have  the  greatest  pleasure,  Alma,  particularly  if  he 
chose  a certain  friend  of  mine.  F(^r,  as  your  father  says,  Charlie  is 
a really  good  fellow,  as  warm-hearted  a man  as  I know,  and  de- 
serves a good  wife.” 

“There  are  plenty  of  good  wives  to  be  had,”  returned  Alma; 
“ no  doubt  Mr.  Judkins  will  soon  find  one,  especially  as  he  has  so 
many  friends  to  put  in  a word  for  him.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


19 


“ and  he  might  have  the  pick  of  girls  in  Malboufne,  and  five 
miles  round,”  added  Mrs.  Lee. 

“And  Charlie  won’t  stand  Alma’s  hoity-toity  airs  much  longer,” 
chimed  in  her  father.  “ He  was  terrible  angry  this  afternoon, 
and  talked  about  stuck-up  fagots,  he  did.  And  you  rising  twenty- 
two,  and  refused  Mr.  Ingram’s  own  man.  I don’t  know  what ’d  be 
good  enough  for  ye,  Alma,  I don’t  without  ’twas  Mr.  Ingram  hisself. 
— Ain’t  she  a willful  one,  Mr.  Cyril?  ” 

“We  mustn’t  be  hard  upon  her,  Ben.  She  has  a right  to  refuse 
a man  if  she  doesn’t  care  for  him.  But  any  girl  might  think  twice 
before  refusing  Charlie  Judkins,”  said  Cyril,  in  his  gentle,  gracious 
way. — “I  was  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Lee,”  he  added,  “that  we  are  run- 
ning short  of  eggs  at  the  Rectory,  and  ask  if  your  fowls  were  laying 
enough  to  spare?  ” 

“ Ourn  have  mostly  give  over  laying,  but  Mrs.  Maitland  shall 
have  a dozen  so  soon  as  Alma  can  get  over  to-morrow.  Why,  you 
don’t  bide  at  the  Rectory  now,  sir  ? ” 

“No.  I have  rooms  in  my  own  parish  at  Shotover,”  he  replied  ; 
“ but  I am  always  running  in  and  out  at  home.  It  is  only  a mile 
and  a half,  you  know  ; and  Shotover  is  such  a tiny  parish,  it  leaves 
us  very  idle.” 

“That’s  well  for  your  book-learning,  Mr.  Cyril.  I reckon  you 
have  to  know  a good  deal  more  before  you  can  be  priested  next 
Trinity.  When  are  ye  coming  over  to  Malbourne  to  preach  to  we  ? ” 
“ Oh,  not  for  a long  while,  Ben.  I feel  as  if  I could  never  have 
the  assurance  to  preach  to  all  you  grave  and  reverend  seigniors.  I 
don’t  even  preach  at  Shotover,  if  I can  help  it,”  he  replied,  with  an 
air  of  ingenuous  modesty  that  became  him  well. 

“You  mun  get  over  that,  sir,”  continued  Ben  ; “you  mun  think 
of  Timothy.  He  was  to  let  no  man  despise  his  youth,  you  mind.” 

“ Certainly,  Ben.  But  I have  only  been  ordained  three  months, 
and  I may  well  hold  my  tongue  till  I have  learned  a little  wisdom. 
Ah,  Ben,  you  can’J  imagine  what  a dreadful  ordeal  it  is  to  preach 
one’s  first  sermon  ! I feel  cold  water  running  down  my  back  when 
I think  of  it.  They  say  my  face  was  whiter  than  my  surplice,  and 
my  voice  sounded  so  loud  and  strange  in  my  ears  I thought  it  must 
frighten  people,  instead  of  which  they  could  scarcely  hear  me.” 

“ Lauk-a-mercy,  Mr.  Cyril,  vou’ll  soon  get  over  that,”  said  Mrs. 
Lee,  in  a tone  of  consolation.  “ That’s  just  how  I felt  the  first  time 
I acted  parlor-maid,  Jane  being  tdok  ill,  and  a party  to  dinner,  and 


20 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


I housemaid.  You  mid  a seen  the  glasses  knock  up  agnn  the  de- 
canter when  I filled  them,  the  jellies  all  a-tremble  with  the  palpita- 
tions— not  to  mention  the  first  time  I walked  into  Malbourne  Church 
with  Lee,  and  made  sure  I should  a dropped  every  step  I took  up 
the  aisle,  and  all  them  hoys  staring,  and  your  pa  beginning  ‘ the 
wicked  man.’  But  law  ! I thinks  nothing  of  it  now.” 

You  may  still  hear  my  teeth  chatter  in  Shotover  Church,  nev- 
ertheless, Mrs.  Lee,”  replied  Cyril,  softly  stroking  the  cat,  which 
still  nestled  purring  on  his  knee,  and  casting  an  amused  glance  on 
Mrs.  Lee  and  on  Alma,  whose  face  expressed  the  most  sympathetic 
interest.  “ But,  as  you  say,  I shall  get  over  it  in  time.  And  indeed, 
if  the  congregation  consisted  of  Alma,  and  Lilian,  and  Mr.  Ingram 
Swaynestone,  and  his  sisters,  I shouldn’t  mind  preaching  at  Mal- 
bourne. Fellow-sinners  of  my  own  age  are  not  so  appalling.” 

‘‘  Ay,  with  a head  like  yourn,  you  med  be  a bishop  some  day,” 
observed  Lee,  thoughtfully.  ‘‘  What’s  this  yere  thing  they  made  ye 
at  college?  somat  to  do  with  quarreling?  ” 

“ A Wrangler.” 

“ Ah ! You  may  depend  upon  it,  it’s  a fine  thing  to  be  a wran- 
gler. Mr.  Ingram,  now,  they  only  made  he  a rustic ; but  he  was  at 
t’other  place — Oxford,  they  calls  it.” 

“He  was  rusticated,”  said  Cyril,  gravely.  “That  is  not  so  ad- 
vantageous as  being  made  a Wrangler.” 

“You  see,  I was  right,  after  all,  mother,”  Alma  interposed; 
“ and  you  always  would  have  it  that  Mr.  Cjril  was  a mangier.  As 
if  they  had  mangles  at  Cambridge ! ” 

“You’d  better  be  less  forward  with  your  tongue,  and  get  on 
with  your  vittles,  miss.  Why,  bless  the  girl,  she’s  eat  nothing,  and 
if  that  ain’t  the  third  time  she’ve  put  sugar  into  the  milk-jug  by 
mistake! — Why,  father,  whatever’s  come  to  her?  ” 

Alma  blushed  prettily,  but  her  confusion  almost  amounted  to 
distress ; and  Cyril,  with  his  ready  tact,  again  drew  attention  from 
her. 

“You  must  not  imagine,”  he  said,  “that  I have  to  pass  my  time 
in  strife  and  dissension  because  I am  a Wrangler.  Quite  the  con- 
trary. Thank  you  for  the  tea,  Mrs.  Lee. — Good  night,  Ben  ” ; and, 
placing  the  cat  very  gently  on  the  warm  hearth,  and  shaking  hands 
with  his  hosts,  Cyril  rose,  took  his  hat,  and  followed  Alma  out  into 
the  darkness. 

She  bore  the  candle,  aud  by  its  light  guided  him  to  the  little 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


21 


wicket  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  where,  with  a courtesy,  she  hid  him 
good  night. 

“ Good  night,  Alma,”  he  returned  carelessly,  and  stepped  briskly 
down  the  dark  meadow,  the  grass  of  which  was  crisped  now  by 
frost;  while  Alma  remained  at  the  wicket,  that  he  might  have  the 
benefit  of  the  candle’s  feeble  ray. 

When  he  was  half-way  across,  he  suddenly  stopped  and  turned^ 

“ O Alma ! ” he  cried,  retracing  his  steps,  when  she  looked  up 
with  startled  inquiry  in  his  face,  ‘‘  I quite  forgot  the  very  thing  I 
came  for.”  Here  he  paused,  overcome  with  surprise  at  the  vivid, 
tense  expression  of  Alma’s  bright  face,  and  a ray  of  illumination 
shot  over  the  something  he  had  observed  in  the  house,  the  absent 
manner  and  the  lack  of  appetite,  and  accounted  for  her  disparage- 
ment of  the  enamored  Judkins.  By  these  signs  he  knew  that  Alma 
was  in  love  with  some  other  swain.  ‘‘  I quite  forgot  Miss  Lilian’s 
message  to  you.  My  sister  is  getting  up  a Bible-class  for  young 
women,  and  she  wishes  you  to  join.  She  is  to  hold  it  in  her  room 
at  the  Kectory  after  even- song  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Will  you 
come?  ” 

Oh,  I don’t  know,  Mr.  Cyril  I You  see,  I should  be  dark  home 
these  winter  nights,”  returned  Alma,  hesitating  and  blushing,  and 
looking  up  at  Cyril  and  down  on  the  frosted  grass  and  up  again. 

“Well,  you  can  talk  it  over  with  Miss  Lilian  when  you  bring 
the  eggs.  I think  we  might  get  over  the  difficulty  of  getting  home 
in  tLe  dark.  If  that  was  all,  I might  see  you  home  myself.” 

“O  Mr.  Cyril!” 

There  was  a quiver  and  flash  and  illumination  in  the  words  and 
look  of  the  simple,  unconscious  girl  which  shot  like  electric  flame 
through  her  interlocutor’s  frame,  and  made  him  speechless.  The 
blue  radiance  from  his  eyes  mingled  for  a moment  with  the  dark 
fire  of  Alma’s,  and  a strange,  unaccustomed  tremor,  that  was  not 
all  pain,  set  his  pulses  beating  as  they  were  not  used  to  heat,  and 
stirred  all  the  currents  of  his  blood. 

“‘Good  night,  Alma,”  he  said  shortly,  and  in  a voice  so  unlike 
his  own  that  the  girl  stood  petrified  in  pained  amazement;  and  he 
turned,  and  sped  swiftly  over  the  crisp  grass  to  the  gate,  glad  to  be 
out  of  the  influence  of  the  solitary  candle’s  dim  light. 

He  let  the  gate  fall-to  with  a clash  which  made  it  vibrate  back- 
ward and  forward  for  some  minutes  before  it  found  rest,  and  strode 
rapidly  over  the  dark  highway  beneath  the  trees. 


22 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


“ What  have  I done?  ” he  muttered,  with  a heating  heart.  0 
my  God!  I meant  no  harm.  What  have  I done?  ” 

Yet  the  warm,  delicious  glow  still  lingered,  paining  him,  in  his 
breast,  and  he  strode  on  with  his  head  bent  down,  humbled  and 
wretched.  His  soul  was  yet  spotless  as  the  untrodden  snow ; all 
his  hopes  and  tastes  were  innocent ; the  fierce  flame  of  temptation 
had  never  yet  cast  its  scorching  glare  upon  him,  hitherto  he  had 
deemed  himself  invulnerable.  In  his  trouble  he  put  his  hand  in- 
stinctively in  his  pockets,  where  nestled  as  usual  the  rubbed  covers 
of  his  ‘‘Visitations  and  Prayers,  for  the  Sick,”  and  other  devotional 
books,  and  was  comforted.  He  lifted  his  head,  and  felt  in  his 
breast-pocket  for  a letter,  the  pressure  of  which,  though  he  could 
not  read  it  beneath  that  dark  dome  of  solid  night,  fully  restored  the 
serenity  to  his  face.  It  began,  “Dearest  Cyril,”  and  ended,  “Ever 
affectionately  yours,  Marion  Everard  ” ; it  alluded  to  the  pains  of 
separation,  and  the  hopes  expressed  by  Cyril  of  a possible  marriage 
in  a year’s  time. 

They  had  been  engaged  a whole  year,  and  the  necessity  of  wait- 
ing another  year  before  marriage  was  the  tragedy  of  their  young  ^ 
lives.  A year  seemed  an  eternity  to  them,  and  the  life  they  passed 
apart  from  each  other  no  life.  A vision  of  Marion’s  gentle  face 
brightened  the  curtain  of  thick  darkness  spread  before  Cyril.  He 
recalled  her  tones  and  looks  with  a rush  of  sweet  affection — all  the 
tender  looks  she  had  ever  given  him,  and  they  were  many ; but  he 
could  not  recall  any  one  look  that  resembled  the-^glance  of  fervid, 
unquenchable  passion  which  flashed  from  Alma’s  tell-tale  eyes  in 
that  fatal  moment  at  the  gate.  Such  a look  he  had  beheld  in  no 
woman’s  eyes ; such  a look,  he  feared,  in  the  narrowness  of  his  se- 
rene purity,  could  light  no  good  woman’s  eyes. 

He  was  wrong.  The  flame  which  burned  in  poor,  innocent  Alma’s 
breast,  and  which  her  guileless  nature  so  rashly  and  unconsciously 
betrayed,  descended  like  a celestial  glory  upon  her  life  with  a puri- 
fying and  strengthening  power,  which  could  have  lifted  her  to  un- 
imagined summits  of  heroism. 

There  are  people  whose  lives  are  never  touched  by  passion,  and 
who,  when  they  come  in  contact  with  it,  recognize  only  its  strength, 
which  they  dread,  and  condemn  its  mysteries  as  baleful.  Such  was 
Cyril  in  these  white  young  days  of  his  before  any  shadow  fell  upon 
his  sunny,  safe  path.  Such  was  not  Cyril  in  after  days,  when  the 
agony  of  the  penitent  and  the  evil-doer  found  a responsive  echo  in 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


23 


his  heart,  and  made  him  pitiful  and  lenient  in  judging  character  and 
discriminating  motives.  But  to-night,  in  spite  of  the  momentary 
glow  for  which  he  so  despised  himself,  he  drew  the  robe  of  the 
Pharisee  about  his  upright  soul,  and  cast  a stone  of  condemnation 
upon  the  sufferer  as  he  passed  her  swiftly  by. 

Alma  remained  statue-like,  with  her  solitary  light  painting  a 
feeble  halo  on  the  all-encompassing  gloom,  until  Cyril’s  steps  had 
ceased  to  echo  along  the  lonely  highway,  and  her  mother  called  to 
her  to  bring  back  the  candle  and  shut  the  door. 

As  soon  as  she  had  obeyed,  she  found  a pretext  for  going  to  her 
room,  and  there,  sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  in  the  dark^ 
she  burst  into  tears. 

“ I am  tired,  and  William  Grove  frightened  me,”  she  said  to  her- 
self ; and  a few  minutes  later  she  was  at  needlework  in  the  parlor, 
singing  like  any  wild  bird. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A WAEM  glimmer  of  ruddy  light  on  the  thick  darkness  told 
Cyril  of  the  approach  of  the  wheelwright’s  house  and  shop,  and, 
passing  this  and  descending  the  hill,  he  became  aware  of  the  rich 
crimson  which  marked  the  lower  windows  of  the  Sun  inn,  and 
found  himself  at  the  end  of  the  wheelwright’s  yard,  at  the  meeting 
of  four  roads.  Opposite  the  Sun,  and  colored  by  its  light,  a sign- 
post reared  itself  at  the  corner,  oblique,  and  appearing  to  gesticulate 
madly  with  its  outspread  arms.  This  corner  turned,  all  the  village 
sparkled  out  in  a little  constellation  of  cottage  casements  before  his 
gaze  ; and  there,,  beyond  the  brook,  which  murmured  faintly  in  the 
stillness,  the  Rectory  windows  shone  out  among  masses  of  foliage, 
or  rather  of  branches,  behind  which  the  gray  church-spire  lifted 
itself  unseen  in  the  mirk.  As  soon  as  Cyril’s  foot  was  within  the 
gate,  a sudden  illumination  from  the  hall  door,  which  simultaneously 
^ opened,  poured  itself  upon  the  drive,  and  showed  him  the  outline 
of  a woman’s  young  and  graceful  figure  in  the  porch. 

“Did  you  hear  me  coming,  Lilian?”  asked  he,  entering  the 
house.  “ Your  hearing  must  indeed  be  acute.” 

“ Did  we  hear  him,  Mark  Antony  ? ” echoed  Lilian,  addressing  a 
magnificent  black  cat,  with  white  breast  and  paws,  which  had  been 


24 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


sitting  upon  the  step  at  her  feet,  and  gazing  with  grave  expectancy 
down  the  drive  till  Cyril  reached  the  door,  when  he  rose,  and  re- 
spectfully greeted  him  with  elevated  tail  and  gentle  mews,  inter- 
spersed with  purring.  “ You  know  that  puss  and  I have  an  extra 
sense,  which  tells  us  when  you  are  coming,”  she  replied  lightly,  as 
she  passed  her  arm  through  his,  and  led  him  through  the  little  hall 
into  the  drawing-room,  on  the  threshold  of  which  a terrier  and  a 
pug  sprang  out  to  greet  the  new-comer  with  short  barks  of  joy  and 
sudden  bounds  and  various  wild  expressions  of  delight — an  indis- 
creet behavior  quietly  rebuked  by  two  swift  but  dignilied  strokes  of 
Mark  Antony’s  white  velvet  paw,  which  sent  the  heedless  animals, 
with  dismal  yelps  and  mortified  tails,  to  a respectful  distance. 

A lady  lay  on  a sofa  near  the  fire,  and  a boy  and  a girl  of  some 
eight  and  nine  years  rolled  on  the  hearth-rug  with  some  toys.  These 
children,  with  Cyril  and  Lilian,  who  were  twins,  constituted  the 
sole  remainder  of  Mrs.  Maitland’s  once  too  numerous  family.  What 
with  bearing  and  rearing  them  all,  and  the  sorrow  of  losing  so 
many,  her  strength  was  now  exhausted,  and  the  prime  of  her  life 
was  passed  chiefly  on  that  sofa,  among  its  warm  rugs.  Cyril  bent 
to  kiss  her,  and  a look  of  pride  and  joy  lighted  her  pale,  refined  face 
as  she  gazed  upon  him. 

The  children  sprang  upon  Cyril,  and  he,  having  caressed  them, 
took  a seat  by  Lilian,  who  was  at  the  writing-table,  from  which  she 
had  risen  on  his  approach. 

‘‘Will  it  do?”  he  asked,  gazing  upon  some  manuscript  before 
her. 

“ I think  so,”  she  replied.  “ I have  drawn  a line  through  the 
most  ornate  passages.  But  you  must  really  try  and  adapt  yourself 
to  your  congregation,  Cyril.  This  goes  completely  over  their 
heads.  Be  less  elaborate,  and  speak  from  your  heart,  simply  and 
honestly.” 

“ The  discipline  which  turns  out  Wranglers,”  observed  Cyril, 
with  a dry  little  smile,  “ does  not  train  popular  rustic  preachers.” 

“Cyril’s  sermons  again?  ” asked  Mrs.  Maitland.  “Lilian  should 
compose  them  entirely,  I think.  And  yet  I am  wrong,  for  I doubt 
if  either  of  you  could  do  anything  without  the  other.” 

• The  twins  smiled,  knowing  this  to  be  perfectly  true.  They  were 
alike,  and  yet  different.  Lilian’s  features  were  fuller  than  Cyril’s; 
lier  eyes  softer  and  of  a gray  color,  but  they  met  the  gazer  with  an 
even  more  powerful  electric  thrill  than  Cyril’s  light  blue  orbs;  her 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


25 


hair  was  many  shades  lighter  than  her  brother’s ; and  while  Cyril 
could  not  appear  in  any  assembly  without  exciting  interest  and 
drawing  all  eyes  to  himself,  Lilian  had  a peculiar  manner  of  pervad- 
ing places  without  attracting  the  slightest  observation.  Gradually 
one  became  aware  of  an  influence,  and  only  after  a long  time  dis- 
covered the  personage  from  whom  it  emanated. 

Xo  one  ever  praised  Lilian’s  beauty,  though  she  possessed  all 
the  elements  of  loveliness.  She  shared  Cyril’s  musical  voice,  but 
lacked  its  more  powerful  and  penetrating  tones.  Cyril  had  beau- 
tifully shaped  hands,  but  Lilian’s  were  like  two  fair  spirits,  and 
formed  the  only  striking  part  of  her  personality ; they  were  the 
first  thing  the  stranger  observed  in  her,  and,  once  observed,  they 
were  never  for  a moment  forgotten.  The  twins  had  shared  every- 
thing from  their  babyhood.  The  same  tutor  demanded  equal  tasks 
of  brother  and  sister ; and  when  Cambridge  separated  them,  Lilian 
still  followed  the  course  of  her  brother’s  studies,  and  would  doubt- 
less have  been  a high  wrangler,  had  she  been  submitted  to  the  same 
tests  as  he.  The  peculiar  bond  between  them  was  respected  and 
acknowledged  even  by  Mark  Antony,  who  was,  as  his  mistress  fre- 
quently observed,  a cat  of  considerable  force  of  character.  Besides 
Lilian,  Cyril  was  the  only  human  being  Mark  Antony  ever  followed 
or  fawned  upon,  and  it  was  supposed  that  his  very  strong  affections 
were  entirely  bestowed  upon  the  twins. 

To  strangers  this  cat  was  haughtily  indifferent ; and,  if  a visitor 
took  such  a liberty  as  to  stroke  his  ebon  fur,  would  rise  and  walk 
away  with  offended  majesty.  To  the  family  he  observed  a distant 
but  eminently  courteous  demeanor;  to  the  servants  he  was  conde- 
scending ; to  the  children  polite,  hut  never  familiar,  their  respectful 
caresses  being  received  with  dignified  resignation,  and  never  suffered 
to  go  beyond  a certain  point;  his  bearing  to  the  dogs  was  that  of  a 
despot.  He  was  a great  warrior,  and  suffered  no  other  cat  to  in- 
trude so  much  as  a paw  on  the  Rectory  grounds  ; hence  his  name. 

He  never  left  Lilian  while  she  was  in  the  house,  and  at  certain 
seasons  exacted  games  of  play  from  her,  scorning  to  play  with  any 
one  else,  save  occasionally  when  he  unbent  so  far  as  to  entangle 
himself  wildly  in  Winnie’s  curls,  to  the  great  consternation  of  the 
dogs.  But  Cyril  might  do  anything  with  him,  and  could  never  do 
wrong.  In  this  Mark  Antony  differed  from  his  mistress,  since  Cyril 
was  the  only  person  with  whom  she  ever  quarreled,  the  two  having 
had  many  a j)itched  battle  in  their  childhood,  though  they  always 


26 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


stood  up  for  each  other  to* such  an  extent  that,  if  one  was  punished 
by  the  deprivation  of  pudding,  the  other  was  permitted  to  go  on 
half  rations  with  the  delinquent,  and  to  give  one  an  orange  meant 
to  give  each  half  a one. 

“ Did  you  tell  him  that  the  Everards  were  here  this  afternoon?  ” 
Mrs.  Maitland  added,  the  personal  pronoun  being  considered  suffi- 
cient indication  to  Lilian  of  her  brother,  while  ‘‘  her  ” in  addressing 
Cyril  was  known  to  mean  Lilian. 

“Were  they,  indeed?  and  I away,  of  course,”  grumbled 
Cyril. 

“ You  may  guess  Marion’s  message,”  laughed  Lilian,  in  a low 
aside,  at  which  Cyril  looked  pleased. 

“Well,  mother,  and  the  news?  ” he  added. 

“ Henry’s  long  silence  is  satisfactorily  explained.” 

“Satisfactorily?  O mother! — and  he  has  been  at  death’s 
door!  ” interrupted  Lilian. 

“111?  Everafd  ? I knew  there  must  be  something  very  seri- 
ous,” ejaculated  Cyril.  “ But  he  is  better?  ” 

“ He  is  convalescent,  dear.  He  is  a noble,  unselfish  fellow,  as  I 
always  knew  when  he  was  but  a tiny  boy  ! He  would  not  let  his 
friends  be  written  to  until  he  was  completely  out  of  danger.  There 
was  a child  dangerously  ill  of  scarlet  fever  in  some  dreadful  court 
in  Seven  Dials.  He  was  too  ill  to  be  moved,  and  had  a bad, 
drunken  mother,  and  Henry  w^atched  him  for  several  nights,  reliev- 
ing guard  with  a day  nurse.  By  the  time  the  child  was  out  of 
danger  Henry  was  raving — ” 

“Then,  why,”  interrupted  Cyril,  with  agitation,  “were  we  not 
told?” 

“ He  had  foreseen  his  delirium,  and  forbidden  any  communica- 
tion till  he  died  or  recovered.  He  knew  full  well  that  nothing 
would  have  kept  Marion  from  him,  had  she  known — ” 

“ He  was  right ! ” broke  in  Cyril,  in  a low,  fervid  tone.  “ Thank 
Heaven  that  he  thought  of  that!  ” 

“Henry  always  thinks  of  everything  that  may  affect  the  welfare 
of  his  friends,”  added  Lilian,  wdiose  face  wore  a look  of  quiet  en- 
thusiasm, and  whose  dark  gray  eyes  were  shining  with  repressed 
tears. 

“■  And  now  ? ” added  Cyril,  with  energy.  “ They  will  not  let 
Marion  go  to  him  now,  I hope.  The  convalescent  stage  is  the  most 
infectious.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


' 27 

They  will  not  meet  until  Henry  is  perfectly  free  from  infec- 
tion. You  may  trust  Henry  for  that,  Cyril.” 

“He  has  been  very  ill,”  said  Lilian;  “they  feared  he  would  be 
both  blind  and  deaf.  It  will  be  months  before  he  can  recover, 
though  the  infectious  stage  is  already  nearly  past.” 

“Poor  old  Everard!  that  will  be  a terrible  trial  for  him  with 
his  ambition.  Time  is  so  precious  to  a man  who  is  beginning  his 
career.” 

“ I suspect  he  has  been  working  too  hard,”  said  Mrs.  Maitland, 
and  the  enforced  rest  to  his  brain  may  benefit  him  more  than 
they  think.  Admiral  Everard  is  ordered  to  the  Mediterranean  with 
the  squadron  in  a few  weeks’  time,  and,  a winter  abroad  being 
necessary  for  Henry,  he  is  to  go  in  the  Cressy  to  Malta,  from  whence 
he  will  afterward  go  to  other  places — Egypt  and  the  Holy  Land 
among  them — and  Marion  is  to  be  his  companion.” 

“Marion?  What!  Marion  spend  the  winter  abroad?  Impos- 
sible ! She  shall  not  go.” 

“ You  are  not  married  yet,  Cyril,”  said  Lilian,  laughing. 

“ My  dear  boy,  why  should  Marion  not  go?  ” asked  his  mother, 
in  surprise.  “ She  is  delighted  at  the  prospect.  It  is  perhaps  the 
only  chance  she  will  have  of  going  abroad  for  any  length  of  time. 
Once  married,  a girl  can  not  see  much  of  the  world,  as  the  admiral 
says,  and  a country  curate’s  wife  is  especially  bound  to  home.” 

“ And  do  you  suppose,  mother,  that  I shall  always  be  a country 
curate?”  asked  Cyril,  with  fire.  “Ho,  indeed.  My  wife  will  have 
as  many  opportunities  of  seeing  the  world  as  any  one,  I trust.  But 
she  can  not,  she  must  not  leave  me  all  this  winter.  I simply  can 
not  spare  her.” 

“And  Henry — can  he  spare  her?  ” asked  Lilian. 

“ She  is  not  engaged  to  Henry.  Let  Henry  get  a wife  of  his 
own.” 

“ My  dear  Cyril,  how  absurdly  you  talk ! ” said  Mrs.  Maitland, 
“You  forget  that  Henry  is  an  invalid,  and  will  need  his  sister’s 
care.  And  you  forget,  too,  that  Marion  is  looking  forward  with 
the  greatest  delight  to  this  unexpected  trip.” 

“The  only  lady  on  board — on  board  a man-of-war!  ” 

“And  awful  fun,  too,”  interposed  the  boy  on  the  rug.  “I  only 
wish  I was  ill,  and  the  admiral  would  take  me.” 

“Well,  Lennie,  you  would  be  a more  appropriate  passenger, 
certainly.  The  admiral  had  better  take  us  all,  I think.  Snip,  the 


28 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.^ 


terrier,  and  Snap,  the  pug,  with  Mark  Antony  to  catch  the  mice 
and  keep  us  in  order.” 

‘‘But  Marion  is  not  going  in  the  Cressy^’’^  interposed  Lilian. 
“There  was  some  idea  of  her  going  at  first.  It  seems,  however, 
that  ladies  are  not  supposed  to  sail  with  their  relations.” 

“I  was  beginning  to  wonder  wdiether  the  admiral  purposed 
carrying  a regular  N oak’s  ark  about  with  him,”  grumbled  Cyrih 
“ And  pray,  how  does  Marion  get  to  Malta  unless  in  the  Cressy  f 
By  balloon?  or  does  she  charter  a vessel  .of  her  own?  ” 

“She  goes  with  the  Wilmots,  overland  by  Marseilles.  Captain 
Wilmot  is  joining  his  regiment  at  Malta.  They  stop  at  Paris  and 
other  places,  taking  it  leisurely,  and  that  will  be  delightful  to 
Marion,  who  has  traveled  so  little.” 

“It  seems,  then,  after  all,  that  Henry  will  have  to  do  without 
Marion  till  he  reaches  Malta,”  said  Cyril. 

But  he  will  have  his  father,  and,  of  course,  a proper  attendant 
on  hoard.  At  Malta  he  will  be  thrown  on  his  own  resources,  and 
will  need  a companion.  They  will  take  care  of  each  other,”  Mrs. 
Maitland  replied  cheerfully.  “ They  think  of  coming  home  by  way 
of  Sicily.” 

“I  shall  go  to  Woodlands  to-morrow,  and  remonstrate  with  the 
admiral  if  he  is  there.  I shall  take  the  pony-chaise,  unless  you 
want  it,  Lilian.” 

“Honsense,  Cyll!  You  may  go  to  the  Woodlands  and  take  the 
pony,  hut  you  will  not  remonstrate  with  the  admiral,  or  make  your- 
self in  any  way  obnoxious,”  said  Lilian.  “ When  you  come  to  re- 
flect, you  will  see  what  a charming  arrangement  it  is  for  every- 
body. The  admiral  is  the  more  delighted,  as  he  thinks  this  voyage 
will  make  Henry  so  desperately  in  love  with  the  navy  that  he  will 
become  a naval  surgeon.” 

“Hang  the  admiral!  ” observed  Cyril,  in  his  softest,  most  plain- 
tive voice,  while  a droll  little  smile  curved  his  lips.  “ Why  doesn’t 
somebody  pity  me  ? Isn’t  it  hard  lines,  Mark  Antony  ? ” 

Mark  Antony  responded  by  a tiny  mew.  He  was  sitting  on 
the  writing-table  between  his  twin  favorites,  the  picture  of  feline 
bliss;  his  tail  curled  round  his  dainty  white  paws,  his  snowy  breast 
tinted  by  the  ruddy  fire-light,  his  eyes  lazily  closing  and  unclosing, 
while  he  made  rhythmic  accompaniment  to  their  voices  in  deep, 
longrdrawn  purrs,  and  expressed  a benevolent  and  condescending 
interest  in  the  conversation  by  occasional  winks  and  movements  in 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


29 


the  direction  of  brother  or  sister,  as  each  spoke.  lie  had  inspected 
aod  thoroughly  sniffed  Cyril’s  sermon  with  an  air  of  approving 
criticism. 

“Mark  Antony  was  most  condescending  to  Marion  this  after- 
noon,” said  Lilian;  “he  not  only  purred  affably  when  she  stroked 
him,  but  even  allowed  her  to  kiss  him  on  the  breast.” 

Whereupon  Cyril  bestowed  a salute  on  the  same  spot,  com° 
mending  the  cat’s  sagacity  in  thus  recognizing  Marion  as  one  of 
fhe  family.  Mark  Antony  drew  himself  up  with  gratified  pride, 
and  returned  his  friend’s  caress  by  lifting  his  velvet  paw,  placing 
his  head  on  one  side  with  an  arch,  roguish  expression  in  his  spark- 
ling eyes  and  bristled  white  whiskers,  and  chucking  Cyril  under 
the  chin  with  the  daintiest  grace,  to  the  envy  and  delight  of  the 
children,  who  worshiped  this  household  divinity  at  a distance; 
the  jealous  disgust  of  the  dogs,  who  were  sleeping  with  one  eye 
open,  after  the  manner  of  their  tribe,  and  growled  faintly ; and  the 
admiration  of  the  whole  family,  who  knew  that  this  delicate  caress 
was  never  accorded  save  to  the  twins. 

“No  one  seems  to  have  thought  of  me  in  this  matter,”  observed 
Cyril,  stroking  the  delighted  animal.  “ I shall  certainly  stand  up 
for  my  rights.  This  notion  of  sacrificing  Marion,  and  sending  her 
half  the  world  over  in  charge  of  an  invalid  brother,  is  too  detest- 
able. Her  sisters  should  interfere ; they  stand  in  the  place  of  a 
mother  to  her.” 

“Married  sisters  have  little  influence  on  home  affairs,  fortu^ 
nately  for  Marion’s  freedom  in  the  choice  of  a husband,”  Mrs.  Mait- 
land said,  laughing. 

“Well,  it  grows  late,”  said  Cyril,  rising.  “By  the  way,  I did 
your  errands  at  Lee’s.  The  eggs  and  the  pupil  are  to  arrive  to-  * 
morrow  morning.” 

“1  am  so  glad  you  remembered^”  replied  Lilian;  “I  have  the 
greatest  desire  to  gain  some  influence  over  Alma  Lee.  Do  you 
know,  Cyril,  she  is  a girl  of  no  common  character.  No  one  in  the 
least  suspects  what  that  girl  is  capable  of.” 

“What,  Lill,  have  you  unearthed  another  genius?”  asked  Cyril, 
carelessly. 

“Oh,  no;  no  genius.  But  the  next  time  you  see  her,  observe 
the  way  in  which  her  eye  flashes,  and  the  mobility  of  her  features. 
Poor  Alma!  she  is  so  liable  to  fall  into  temptation,  with  her  beauty 
and  ignorance,  and  passionate,  undisciiffined  nature.  There  are 


30 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


fine  elements  in  her,  deep  feeling,  strong  imagination,  and  capa- 
bility of  self-sacrifice.  How  she  tended  that  poor  little  step-sister 
of  hers!  Lucy  was  fearfnlly  afflicted.  Her  own  mother  shrank 
from  her  at  times;  but  Alma,  never.  Yet  she  is  very  wayward, 
and  so  spoiled.  Her  nature  is  powerful  for  evil  and  good.  Noth- 
ing but  strong  principle  can  keep  such  a nature  straight.” 

Cyril  listened,  looking  thoughtfully  toward  the  fire,  with  his 
hand  shading  his  eyes  from  its  light. 

“ My  sister  is  a profound  student  of  human  nature,  mother,”  he 
observed  lightly.  “She  is  right  in  saying  that  Miss  Alma  has  a 
will  of  her  own. — Let  us  hope  you  will  succeed  in  putting  a curb  on 
this  unbridled  nature,  Lilian.  You  are  quite  right  in  your  analysis 
of  it.  JBut  I am  not  sure  that  a Bible-class  is  the  panacea  you  im- 
agine. To  move  Alma  Lee,  I think  you  must  appeal  to  her  afiec- 
tions.” 

“ She  is  frightfully  vain,  poor  girl  I ” interposed  Mrs.  Maitland. 
“ If  you  could  induce  her  to  dress  more  quietly,  Lilian ! ” 

“ I am  not  so  much  afraid  of  her  vanity,  mother.  As  Cyril  says, 
her  affections  must  be  got  at,  and  I want  to  make  my  Bible-class  a 
means  to  that  end.” 

“Just  listen  to  the  parish  priest!”  laughed  Cyril;  “she  talks 
like  a book.  She  is  worth  ten  curates  to  my  father.  The  time  I 
have  wasted,  as  usual ; it  is  past  seven ! Good  night,  Lennie.  Have 
you  earned  the  half-crown  yet?  Ho?  Lazy  fellow.  You  will 
never  be  able  to  own  a menagerie  as  you  wish,  unless  you  work 
harder.  You  may  still  get  the  half-crown  if  you  bring  me  a fable 
of  La  Fontaine's,  in  decent  Latin,  remember.  Winnie  has  fully 
earned  hers,  and  here  it  is,  brand  new.  Good  night,  mother. 
Father  will  be  home  at  eight,  he  bid  me  tell  you.  Good  night, 
Lilian.”  And,  having  been  duly  taken  leave  of  by  the  dogs,  Cyril 
left  the  drawing-room,  accompanied  to  the  door  by  Lilian  and  Mark 
Antony,  the  latter  flourishing  his  tail  aloft  with  due  ceremony,  and 
remaining  seated  on  the  step  at  Lilian’s  feet,  watching  till  the  young 
man’s  form  was  swallowed  up  in  the  wintry  gloom. 

“ Cyril  appears  anxious  to  be  married,”  Mrs.  Maitland  observed, 
on  Lilian’s  return  to  the  drawing-room.  “It  is  a very  strong  at- 
tachment, and  well  placed,  fortunately  for  the  dear  boy.  His  anx- 
iety about  Marion  actually  made  him  forget  Henry’s  peril  and  the 
heroism  which  brought  it  upon  him.  Love  is  stronger  than  friend- 
ship.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAATLAND, 


31 


“ Cyril  is  very  impulsive,”  replied  Lilian,  “ and,  like  all  impulsive 
people,  is  in  a desperate  hurry  about  everything.  An  early  mar- 
riage is  the  thing  to  give  balance  to  such  a temperament.” 

“Dear  child,”  remonstrated  her  mother,  “I  do  not  think  he 
needs  balance.  I may  be  a foolish  old  woman,”  she  added,  smiling, 
“but  I can  see  no  fault  in  Cyril.  Neither  can  your  father.  I wish 
he  had  wider  scope  for  bis  fine  talents.  To  cramp  a young  fellow 
of  his  splendid  powers  and  attainments  in  that  narrow  country 
parish  seems  such  a deplorable  waste  of  good  material.  I see,  too, 
that  the  bondage  chafes  him.” 

Lilian  made  no  reply,  but  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  fire,  sooth- 
ing some  inward  perturbation  by  stroking  and  restroking  Mark 
Antony,  who  sat  purring  with  an  expression  of  imbecile  rapture  on 
her  knee. 

Cyril  meanwhile  made  his  way  through  the  foggy  darkness  of 
the  country  roads  to  his  rooms  in  the  tiny  village  where  lay  his 
cure,  vexed  and  cogitating  upon  every  possible  means  of  keeping 
Marion  in  England. 

His  dinner  was  ready — a simple  chop,  but  cooked  and  served  in 
the  daintiest  perfection,  and  accompanied  by  a bottle  of  claret  of  a 
delicate  vintage.  Some  late  flowers  and  a dish  of  autumn  fruit 
garnished  his  table,  all  the  appointments  of  which  were  elegant  and 
refined.  Nothing  in  the  simple  little  lattice- windowed  room  could 
offend  the  most  fastidious  taste,  though  it  was  rather  bare,  and  its 
easiest  chair  would  have  been  full  of  penance  to  some  people’s  limbs. 
Two  proof  line-engravings,  after  Raphael,  were  its  sole  adornments, 
unless  we  include  a great  many  books,  most  of  which  were  well 
bound,  and  a harmonium.  His  solitary  meal  ended,  Cyril’s  land- 
lady brought  him  some  coffee,  made  as  English  coffee  rarely  is,  and 
served  in  a lovely  cup  of  Sevres,  the  gift  of  Marion  Everard,  and 
acquainted  him  with  the  fact  that  an  old  woman  had  sent  three 
times  that  day,  requesting  him  to  come  and  read  to  her,  as  she  was 
taken  worse. 

“ I’ll  go  directly,”  replied  Cyril.  “ Poor  old  soul ! J’m  so  sorry 
I was  out  when  she  sent  and  he  started  from  his  seat  to  get  his 
hat.  Then  it  struck  him  that  he  had  better  drink  the  coffee  while 
it  was  hot,  and  he  sat  down  again,  and  fell  into  a reverie,  experi- 
encing the  delicious  physical  languor  which  comes  after  much  air 
and  exercise  and  the  satisfaction  of  a temperate  appetite,  and  which 
is  so  favorable  to  a certain  kind  of  mental  occupation.  He  looked 
3 


32 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


wistfully  at  a volume  of  St.  Augustine,  which  lay  ready  to  his  hand, 
and  then  at  his  watch.  “ It  is  too  late  for  Martha  Hale  to-night,” 
he  reflected;  “and,  after  all,  what  good  can  I do  her?  Her  life 
has  been  a combination  of  a martyr’s  and  a saint’s ; she  has  the 
Bible  at  her  fingers’  ends,  and  caught  me  tripping  in  a quotation 
twice  the  other  day.  Her  spiritual  knowledge  is  such  as  I can  only 
dimly  guess  at.  I can  tell  her  nothing  that  she  does  not  know  five 
times  as  well  as  I.  Her  daughter  reads  to  her  by  the  hour.  Sh© 
has  no  sins  to  confess,  no  doubts  to  calm.  And  it  would  be  a sin 
to  disturb  her  at  this  time  of  night.”  And  he  finished  the  coffee, 
and  was  soon  lost  in  St.  Augustine’s  “ City  of  God,”  which  he  closed 
at  last  at  about  the  time  when  Martha  Hale’s  radiant  soul  fiitted 
from  its  worn  and  suffering  tenement.  Then  he  slept  as  youth 
sleeps,  Marion’s  sweet  face  flitting  through  his  dreams,  and  her 
voice  making  melody  to  an  accompaniment  of  sweetly  clashing  peals 
of  the  bell-music  from  Long’s  wagon  team. 


CHAPTER  IV.  ' 

Rather  more  than  a year  after  Alma  Lee’s  evening  ride  in  the 
wagon,  a railway  carriage  containing  two  travelers  was  speeding 
southward  through  the  wintry  air,  with  din  and  rattle  and  smoke 
in  the  wake  of  the  red-eyed  engine,  which  panted,  groaned,  and 
throbbed  as  with  the  agony  of  some  vexed  demon. 

The  travelers  were  men  in  the  heyday  of  youth,  and  their  com- 
fortable rugs,  and  the  array  of  books  and  papers  with  which  they 
were  surrounded  in  the  well-padded  carriage,  marked  them  as  among 
those  fortunate  sons  of  earth  who  are  absolved  from  the  labor  of 
carefully  considering  sixpences  and  shillings  before  converting  them 
into  things  of  convenience  or  pleasure.  An  odor  as  of  a recently 
evanished  cigar  of  fine  flavor  further  emphasized  their  emancipation 
from  the  slavery  of  petty  economies,  though  a practiced  observer 
would  never  for  a moment  have  classed  them  in  the  ranks  of  those 
gilded  youth  who  are  exempted  from  the  blessed  curse  of  labor, 
and  at  liberty  to  squander  the  rich  prime  of  their  strength  on  pleas- 
ures and  follies  as  they  will.  Ho ; they  were  evidently  two  young 
men  of  the  cultured  middle  class,  bred  in  comfort,  if  not  luxury^ 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


38 


but  with  their  own  standing  yet  to  make— a truly  happy  position 
for  a youth  of  average  thews  and  sinews. 

They  sat  in  opposite  corners,  with  their  legs  stretched  out  he« 
neath  tlieir  warm  rugs,  one  looking  backward  at  the  swiftly  receding- 
perspective  of  trees  and  fields,  villages  and  farmsteads,  flashing  and 
fading  on  the  sight ; the  other  facing  forward  to  the  yet  unseen, 
but  seeing  it  not,  since  he  was  fast  asleep.  Fast  asleep,  unconscious 
and  peaceful  as  any  babe  on  its  mother’s  breast,  he  was  speeding- 
on  without  fear  to  a fate  which  in  his  wildest  dreams  he  could 
never  have  pictured,  and  which,  could  it  have  been  shadowed  forth 
ever  so  dimly  to  him,  he  would  have  dismissed  with  laughing  scorn 
as  utterly  improbable— nay,  impossible.  Yet  the  train  rushed  on 
with  pant  and  puff  and  clatter,  bearing  him  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  hidden  terror  with  every  quiet  breath  he  drew  in  his  secure 
slumbers,  while  pleasant  fancies  of  the  present  and  warm  hopes  of 
the  future  wove  themselves  into  fantastic  images  in  his  light  dreams. 
His  was  a well-built,  manly  form,  and  his  sleeping  face,  with  all  its 
placid  calm,  was  full  of  latent  energy  and  bright  intellect ; a strong, 
serene  face,  with  firm  lips  and  chin,  the  face  of  a man  who  could 
do  and  endure  much ; a face  expressive  of  healthy  vigor  of  both 
mind  and  body,  though  it  bore  traces  of  fatigue,  which  the  soft 
touches  of  sleep  were  every  moment  erasing. 

His  wakeful  companion  was  a clergyman,  a man  whose  mobile 
and  finely  cut  features,  and  eyes  full  of  intense  blue  light,  were  ex- 
pressive of  something  akin  to  genius;  a man  whose  delicately  or- 
ganized nature  could  be  touched,  the  observer  would  imagine,  only 
to  the  finest  issues. 

A world  of  thought  and  care  sat  on  the  young  priest’s  brow,  and 
the  look  which  he  bent  on  the  fast-receding  fields  was  so  profoundly 
sad,  that  it  would  seem  as  if  happiness  could  never  again  smile  on 
him.  None  of  the  layman’s  calm  strength  and  wholesome  serenity 
was  his;  such  power  as  his  face  expressed  would  come  in  lightning 
flashes  of  brief  but  keen  intensity.  All  nerve,  fire,  imagination,  and 
feeling,  was  this  young  spirit  apparently ; jcapable  of  descending  to 
the  lowest  depths  of  suffering,  or  rising  to  the  very  airiest  summits 
of  enthusiasm.-  It  was  an  eminently  beautiful  and  spiritual  young 
face,  and  one  which  never  failed  to  awaken  interest,  if  not  love» 
He  looked  very  worn  and  fatigued ; but  no  merciful  wing  of  slee] 
came  to  fan  the  trouble  from  his  brow,  while  his  companion  slept  so 
serenely  and  dreamed  so  pleasantly. 


34: 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


\ 

\ 

In  one  hand  he  held  a little  book  with  red  edges,  hut,  instead  oA 
consulting  its  pages,  his  eyes  were  bent  fixedly  on  the  flying  wintry 
landscape,  which,  nevertheless,  they  saw  not,  their  gaze  of  intense 
abstraction  being  turned  inward  upon  some  unspeakable  sorrow. 
His  face  was  in  the  shadow,  while  some  rays  of  wintry  sunlight 
fell  upon  the  sleeper’s  face,  touched  the  brown  mustache  with  tints 
of  gold,  and  finally  dazzled  the  closed  eyes  to  wakefulness.  They 
were  very  pleasant  eyes  when  opened — honest,  hazel  eyes,  looking 
directly  and  kindly  upon  the  world,  and  suggesting  the  sunshine  of 
wholesome  mirth  in  their  depths;  shrewd  eyes,  for  they  had  seen 
many  varieties  of  human  beings  in  the  course  of  six  and  twenty 
years,  and  were  not  easily  deceived. 

‘‘Upon  my  word,”  observed  the  owner  of  the  eyes,  “I  think  I 
must  have  forgotten  myself  for  a moment,  Cyril.” 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice  all  the  sadness  vanished  from  the 
young  priest’s  face ; the  mournfully  brooding  eyes  left  the  landscape, 
and  flashed  a gay  brilliance  upon  the  face  in  the  sunshine;  the 
finely  molded  lips  lost  their  drooping  curve  in  a smile ; the  dejected 
attitude  became  one  of  alert  repose;  the  whole  man  was  changed. 

“You  may  have  forgotten  yourself,  old  fellow,  hut  it  was  im« 
possible  for  any  one  else  to  forget  you  with  that  dulcet  harmony  of 
yours  resounding  through  the  brain,”  he  replied. 

“Come,  now,  that’s  a libel;  I never  snore,”  returned  the  other, 
with  a hearty  yawn  that  brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes ; “ and  if  I 
did,  you  might  forgive  me,  since  you  were  not  preaching.” 

“ There  are  some  sermons  of  mine  just  over  your  head,  Everard ; 
who  knows  but  some  lulling  influence  may  have  emanated  from 
them  ? ” 

“ ‘He  jests  at  scars  that  never  felt  a wound.’  You  scoundrel, 
you  know  very  well  that  the  sleep  of  the  just  is  murdered  the 
moment  you  begin  thumping  the  pulpit-cushion,”  said  Everard, 
with  a banter  which  veiled  an  honest  enthusiasm  for  his  friend’s 
gifts. 

“I  suppose  I ought  to  say  something  neat  with  regard  to  the 
elegance  with  which  you  take  ofif  people’s  legs  and  tie  up  their  ar- 
teries. But,  you  see,  my  ignorance  is  so  total — ” 

“ Exactly.  Genius  in  our  profession  is  known  only  to  the  ini- 
tiated, while  in  yours  it  is  impossible  to  hide  its  light  under  a bushel. 
Lucky  fellows,  you  parsons.  Hot  the  minutest  spark  of  worth  in 
you  escapes  observation.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


35 


I You  have  hit  on  the  weak  point  in  our  profession,  Henry,” 
^ said  Cyril,  dropping  his  air  of  banter.  “ Seriously,  it  is  a very  aw- 
ful thing  to  he  placed  as  we  are  in  the  full  light  of  public  observa- 
tion, all  our  weaknesses,  failings,  and  errors  heightened  by  its  glare, 
and  doing — oh,  the  smallest  of  them! — such  worlds  and  worlds  of 
harm.” 

“Stuff,  Maitland!  That  is  where  you  parsons  err.  You  think 
too  much  of  your  example  and  influence-  You  don’t  suppose,  man, 
that  we  think  you  superior  to  human  weaknesses?  Not  a bit  of  it ; 
we  should  loathe  you  if  we  did.  For  goodness’ sake,  Cyril,  don’t 
take  up  with  these  superflne  priestly  notions.  By  fhe  way,  why 
didn’t  you  go  to  sleep  ? You  look  as  if  you  wanted  it  badly  enough. 
Have  you  got  some  infernal  machine  secreted  under  your  waistcoat, 
to  wake  you  with  a timely  dig  in  case  you  succumb  to  nature’s 
weakness,  according  to  the  rule  of  St.  What’s-his-name?  ” 

“ My  dear  fellow,”  returned  the  other,  with  a pained  look, 
“ you  mean  no  harm,  but  you  handle  certain  subjects  with  a lev- 
ity—” 

“ Come  now,  Cyril,  we  are  not  treading  on  holy  ground.  Your 
conscience  and  feelings  are  in  a state  of  hyper-gesthesia ; you  have 
been  working  too  hard.  I didn’t  mean  that  parsons  were  not 
expected  to  practice  what  they  preach  a little  more  precisely  than 
other  men,  or  that  any  grave  lapse  on  their  part  is  not  worse  in 
them  than  in  others.  But  I object  to  this  morbid  self-conscious- 
ness and  conscience-searching.  Surely  a clergyman  who  is  honest 
in  his  faith  ought  to  be  able  to  lead  a Christian’s  life  with  sulRcient 
ease  to  prevent  him  from  torturing  himself  about  the  effect  of  his 
peccadilloes,  which  are 'all  taken  for  granted,  on  his  flock.” 

. “There  are  no  peccadilloes  for  us,”  returned  Cyril,  with  a deep 
sigh.  “ But  now,  Henry,  let  me  speak  out  my  anxiety  about  you  as 
a friend  merely,  not  as  a priest.  Many  things  you  have  said  lately 
have  grieved  me  deeply — ” 

“ Oh,  I know ! Because  I don’t  believe  in  the  devil,  I am  in  a 
parlous  state.  You  priests  have  a great  tenderness  for  that  absurd 
old  devil  of  yours.  Beg  his  pardon ; I will  speak  more  respectfully 
of  him  in  future.  Drive  on.” 

“Your  profession,”  pursued  Maitland,  with  a look  of  shocked 
forbearance,  “ is  a noble  one  ; nay,  in  some  respects  it  is  more  noble 
than  the  priesthood  itself,  though  lacking  the  special  stamp  of  sanc- 
tity that  it  bears.  It  is  more  noble  because  it  involves  so  much 


36 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


more  self-sacrifice.  But  it  is  one  beset  with  special  and  awful  dan« 
gers.  Your  minds  are  so  constantly  set  upon  the  material,  that  it 
is  no  wonder  if  you  are  tempted  to  lose  sight  of  the  spiritual.” 

‘‘  That  I admit,”  returned  Everard. 

“You  risk  your  souls  that  you  may  heal  our  bodies,  and  the 
Italian  proverb,  ‘ Where  there  are  three  doctors  there  are  two  athe- 
ists,’ is  daily  verified.” 

“ Granted.  But  I am  not  one  of  the  atheists,  happily  for  me.” 

“Not  yet;  hut  I tremble  for  you,  Henry.  That  light  tone 
grows  upon  you.  And  you  reason  every  day  more  and  more  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  man  of  science.  You  learn  more  and  more 
to  distrust  everything  that  can  not  be  proved  by  the  evidence  of  the 
senses — ” 

“ Of  reason.” 

“ It  ainounts  to  the  same  thing.  Will  you  promise  to  pray 
against  this,  Henry  ? ” asked  Cyril,  with  intense  supplication. 

“ My  friend,”  returned  the  other,  with  a slight  shake  of  his 
body,  like  that  a dog  gives  in  issuing  from  the  water,  “ you  accused 
me  just  now  of  treating  sacred  things  with  levity.  Now  your 
words  jar  upon  my  sense  of  reverence,  which  is  strangely  different 
in  a priest  and  a layman.  You  are  accustomed,  you  see,  to  handle 
religious  topics  freely.  I am  not.  And  as  I have  no  words  to  ex- 
press them  in,  I would  rather  leave  them  alone.” 

Cyril  heaved  a profound  sigh,  and  was  silent  for  some  seconds, 
while  Everard  kindled  a second  cigar. 

“You  think  I have  taken  a liberty,  Harry ?”  he  asked,, after  a 
while. 

“Not  in  the  least.  Feeling  as  you  do,  you  would  have  been 
wrong  to  be  silent.  You  have  but  done  your  duty,  old  friend. 
Cheer  up.  Oh,  do  keep  a fellow  company  in  a cigar!  It  is  holi- 
day-time.” 

Cyril’s  sensitive  face  brightened.  It  was  evident  that  he  was 
extremely  anxious  about  the  effect  his  words  would  have  on  his 
friend’s  estimation  of  him.  But  he  resolutely  declined  the  cigar — 
a self-denial  which  fretted  his  friend  as  being  quite  a new  feature  in 
his  character. 

“You  are  very  much  changed,  Maitland,  during  the  past  year,” 
he  said,  looking  keenly  at  him. 

“I  am  indeed,”  he  replied,  with  a heavy  sigh ; and  he  turned 
the  subject  by  pointing  out  the  towers  of  a gray  cathedral  in  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


87 


distance.  ‘‘It  is  always  a pleasant  friend  to  meet  on  one^s  way 
home,”  he  said  ; and  the  two  joined  in  admiring  the  massive  pile, 
till  their  passage  through  a chalk  cutting  hid  it  from  their  sight  for 
a'  time,  and  then  the  train  slackened,  the  shouts  of  porters  were 
heard,  the  cathedral  appeared  once  more,  and  they  ’glided  under 
the  roofs  of  the  smoky  station,  amid  a confused  din  of  bell-ringing, 
door-banging,  hurrying  steps  and  wheels,  and  all  the  turmoil  at- 
tending a brief  pause  on  a main  line. 

lielminster  always  had  a great  fascination  for  me,”  observed 
the  doctor,  looking  across  the  sea  of  smoke- wreathed  roofs  to  the 
vast  towers  of  the  cathedral.  “ Surely  that  serenely  majestic  per- 
son in  gaiters  is  the  bishop  himself.  The  expression  ‘ Church  dig- 
nitary ’ is  so  fit.  Who  ever  heard  of  a medical  dignitary,  or  a legal 
dignitary  ? Good  gracious  me,  Maitland,  what  an  awful  thing  it 
must  be  to  be  a bishop’s  son!  Fancy  asking  that  urbane  and  digni- 
fied cleric  to  pass  the  wine  ? I should  faint  if  called  upon  to  feel  a 
spiritual  lordship’s  pulse.” 

Cyril  smiled  as  tlie  unconscious  bishop  made  a stately  and  soli- 
tary progress  past  their  carriage,  recognizing  the  young  clergyman 
as  he  passed. 

“ He  is  very  kind  and  fatherly,”  he  observed,  as  the  train  moved 
on.  “I  wish  I were  still  in  bis  diocese.  Yes,  I have  a great  re- 
gard for  Belminster.  I was  ordained  there.” 

“ May  you  walk  in  the  gaiters  of  that  good  old  gentleman,  Cyril, 
some  score  of  years  hence,  and  make  the  splendid  old  arches  of  the 
minsteT  ring  with  your  eloquence ! I shall  settle  near  you — as 
parish  doctor,  mind — though  I invent  Heaven  knows  how  many 
diseases,  as  I hope  to  do,  and  Europe  rings  with  my  discoveries. 
No  fashionable  physician  business  for  me.” 

“ A bishop,”  observed  the  young  priest,  thoughtfully,  “ has  an 
immense  scope  for  action.” 

“ Here  is  a man,”  said  Everard,  appealing  to  the  windows  and 
sides  of  the  carriage,  “who  is  too  honest  to  say,  ‘Nolo  episcopari.’ 
Let  us  make  much  of  this  man  ! Let  us — hem  I — marry  him  to  our 
sister.” 

‘•This  day  two  months,”  added  Maitland,  “the  wedding  will 
take  place.” 

“By  the  way,  the  young  minx  suggested  that  I should  read 
Tennyson’s  ‘ St.  Simeon  Stylites  ’ at  the  next  Penny  Readings.  The 
suggestion  is,  I suppose,  intended  for  a profound  joke.  Rather  a 


88 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


weak  poem.  Lunacy  requires  the  master-mind  of  a Shakespeare  to 
handle  it  without  repulsiveness.” 

I am  not  sure  that  it  was  lunacy,”  said  Cyril. 

“ Not  lunacy  to  stand  on  a pillar  for  thirty  years  ? My  good 
fellow,  when  I consider  the  doings  of  the  Stylites  and  the  recluses 
of  the  Thebaid,  I sometimes  wonder  if  there  was  any  sanity  in  the 
world  in  those  days.” 

There  was,  at  least,  method  in  their  madness,  Everard.  Con- 
sider the  power  their  austerities  gained  them  over  the  minds  of  ordi- 
nary men.” 

“ Of  course ; many  an  authentic  maniac  has  been  honored  with 
almost  divine  honors  in  certain  stages  of  society.  The  lust  of 
power  is  a curious  thing.  For  my  part,  I would  rather  be  a non- 
entity than  stand  on  a pillar  to  gain  influence.” 

“But  consider  what  they  wanted  influence  for.  To  bring  souls 
to  God.” 

“ So  they  persuaded  themselves,  no  doubt.  Of  all  things  I loathe 
asceticism.  Not  so  much  for  the  spiritual  ambition  and  pride  that 
attend  it,  as  because  it  is  in  reality  only  the  other  side  of  profligacy, 
^or,  in  other  words,  an  ascetic  is  a rake  turned  monk.” 

“ Can  a rake  do  better  than  turn  monk?  ” 

“In  my  judgment,  he  can.  He  can  repent,  turn  away  from  his 
wickedness,  and  lead  a rational  human  life.” 

“ Nay.  He  has  made  himself  unworthy  of  those  common  human 
enjoyments  in  which  innocent  men  may  indulge.  Nothing  but  a 
life  of  penance  can  atone — ” 

“ Nothing  can  atone,”  interrupted  Everard.  “I  am  a Protest- 
ant, Cyril — a rabid  Protestant,  as  you  observed  the  other  day. 
None  of  your  popish  penances  for  me.  WhaPs  the  matter?  ” 

“ Nothing,”  replied  Cyril,  whose  features  quivered  with  pain,  as 
he  pressed  his  hand  to  his  side.  “ At  least,  only  a ‘ stitch  ’ I am 
subject  to.  Myself,  I long  for  more  austerity  in  the  Christian  life 
of  to-day.  A few  eremites  of  the  Thebaid  type  on  Salisbury 
plain — ” 

“ I tell  you  what,  Cjril : you  must  learn  to  moderate  your  trans- 
ports in  that  parish  of  yours,  or  you  will  soon  be  in  a hospital  or  a 
lunatic  asylum.  Subject  to  a stitch  at  four  and  twenty  ! It  won’t 
do.  The  devil  fly  away  with  your  eremites!  There  are  legends  of 
some  of  those  same  Thebaid  lunatics,  who,  after  passing  years  and 
years  in  every  species  of  austerity,  suddenly  burst  their  unnatural 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


trammels  in  one  unguarded  moment,  fled  to  the  city,  and  plunged 
into  a very  vortex  of  iniquity.  Extremes  meet,  and  Mature  is  a 
stern  avenger.” 

The  spasm  again  flitted  across  Cyril’s  face,  unnoticed  by  his 
friend,  for  Cyril  turned  to  the  window  as  he  pressed  his  side.  Be- 
neath his  clothes  he  wore  a little  golden  cross  studded  with  tiny 
spikes,  which,  on  pressure,  pierced  the  flesh. 

‘‘The  exception  rather  proves  the  rule,”  he  said,  smiling,  as  he 
turned  his  face  again  toward  his  friend.  “ The  ascetics  have  in  all 
ages  of  the  world  been  the  salt  of  the  earth.  A mere  protest 
against  sensuality  is  something.  And  people  need  the  discipline  of 
pain.” 

“ If  I were  to  invent  a purgatory,  Cyril,  it  would  be  one  of  hap- 
piness. Joy  is  the  true  educator  and  reflner,  not  pain.  Nothing 
exists,  or  can  exist,  without  joy,  which  is  both  the  originator  and 
sustainer  of  life  in  the  organic  world,  and  therefore,  by  analogy,  in 
the  spiritual.  You  and  I are  here  to-day  as  the  result  of  long  ages 
of  physical  and  moral  well-being  enjoyed  through  an  infinite  chain 
of  ancestors.  Without  continued  physical,  mental,  and  moral  en- 
joyment throughout  our  own  individual  lives,  you  and  I would 
never  have  attained  to  our  present  physical,  mental,  and  moral 
stature — such  as  it  is.  Good  Heavens,  Cyril ! think  of  the  stunted, 
stifled  natures  we  have  been  seeing  daily  in  those  dens  of  East-End 
vice  and  misery,  and  contrast  them  with  the  men  who  were  our 
companions  at  Cambridge ! ” 

‘‘  I grant  a certain  necessary  basis  of  physical  well-being, re- 
joined Cyril,  wearily;  “hut  I trust  the  day  will  dawn  when  you 
too  will  rejoice  in  the  discipline  of  sorrow.  It  may  even  now  be 
knocking  at  your  doors ; for  you  are  too  happy,  Harry,  for  a sinful 
man — ” 

“ I am  most  perfectly  happy,  and  trust  to  remain  so,  my  grue- 
some prophet,”  said  Everard,  with  a cheery  laugh.  “I  have  youth, 
health,  a clear  conscience,  a profession  I love,  and  good  prospects  in 
it,  and — and — ” Here  a curious  smile,  and  something  distantly 
resembling  a blush,  irradiated  the  doctor’s  face.  “In  short,  I should 
be  an  ungrateful  miscreant  if  I were  not  perfectly  happy.  Though, 
to  be  sure,”  he  added,  “ I am  not  going  to  be  married  to  one  of  the 
dearest  girls  on  earth  this  day  two  months.  Why,  what  is  this? 
Oldport  already,  as  I am  a living  man  ! ” He  was  on  his  feet  in  a 
moment,  eagerly  scanning  the  faces  on  the  platform,  while  Cyril 


40 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


collected  the  various  impedimenta,  “ She  is  not  there,”  he  mut- 
tered, in  a tone  of  disappointment,  as  he  appropriated  his  own  share 
of  the  plunder. 

‘‘Oh  no ! ” returned  Cyril,  in  a composed  manner  ; “ she  had  no 
intention  of  coming.  Lilian  would  come  alone ; the  phaeton  only 
holds  three,  and  Marion,  of  course,  would  not  drive  in  alone.” 

Everard  smiled  at  the  different  significance  of  the  word  “she” 
in  his  own  and  his  friend’s  vocabulary ; to  the  latter  it  meant  Ma- 
rion ; to  himself,  Lilian. 

“ Perhaps  she  i^  here,  after  all,”  he  continued,  “ waiting  outside 
with  the  pony.” 

“ Go  and  see,”  said  Cyril ; “time  and  patience,  meanwhile,  may 
result  in  the  production  of  a porter,  which  event  I will  abide.” 

Everard  eagerly  strode  along  the  little  platform,  thronged  with 
laborers,  and  market-women  hearing  baskets  of  the  singularly 
aggressive  nature  affected  by  market-women — baskets  constructed 
apparently  for  the  express  purpose  of  damaging  passengers’  ribs, 
and  finding  out  their  tenderest  spots.  He  threaded  his  way  eagerly 
through  these  perils,  occasionally  removing  a stolid  and  motionless 
human  obstacle  by  the  simple  process  of  placing  his  hands  on  its 
shoulders  and  wheeling  it  aside,  till  he  issued  on  the  top  of  the  hill 
outside  the  station.  The  river  flowed  peacefully  by  its  wharves  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill ; the  little  town  rose  on  its  banks,  and  clustered 
lovingly  round  the  base  of  the  tall  white  tower,  whose  weathercock 
burned  golden  in  the  clear  wintry  sky  ; and  the  gray  downs  laid 
their  arms  protectingly  round  this  their  child. 

But  Everard  did  not  look  at  this  scene ; he  scanned  only  the 
lines  of  flys  and  omnibuses,  each  manned  by  a gesticulating  whip- 
Tvaving  driver,  in  search  of  the  well-known  pony  from  Malbourne, 
with  the  face  he  loved  behind  it.  But  there  was  no  pony  and  no 
Lilian,  and  he  returned  disconsolate  to  Cyril,  who,  in  the  mean  time, 
had  succeeded  in  gaining  the  attention  of  one  of  the  two  distracted 
porters. 

“ Perhaps,”  observed  Cyril,  tranquilly,  “ I forgot  to  write.  Who 
knows?  Well,  we  must  have  a fly.” 

“By  the  sword  of  my  grandfather,”  cried  Everard,  “I  will  not 
go  in  one  of  those  confounded  flys.  Let  us  walk.  The  weather  is 
made  for  it.  A country  walk  will  drive  ascetic  megrims  out  of  your 
brain.” 

“ And  the  portmanteaus  ? ” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


41 


“Left  till  called  for.  We  can  cany  our  own  bags.  Now,  look 
here,”  he  added,  as  Cyril  demurred,  “I  am  not  going  to  mortify  my 
flesh  by  riding  in  a cushioned  fly  behind  two  horses,  with  my  lug- 
gage carried  for  me.  I shall  walk  across  country,  bag  on  shoulder ; 
and  if  that  is  too  comfortable  for  your  reverence,  you  can  get  some 
dried  peas  at  the  first  grocer’s  we  come  to.” 

Cyril  laughed  and  consented.  Everard  gave  the  man  silver  to 
buy  peas  to  put  in  his  boots,  to  his  great  mystification,  and  the  two 
young  men  set  off  down  the  hill,  deafened  by  the  importunities  of 
flymen,  and  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  dark,  sluggish  river,  and 
admired  the  artistic  pyramids  of  casks  on  the  brewers’  wharves, 
and  rejoiced  at  hearing  the  familiar  Hampshire  drawl  in  the  streets; 
for  it  was  market-day,  and  many  a rustic  lounged,  stolid,  with  open 
mouth,  before  the  gay  shop- windows  decked  for  Christmas. 

Presently  a more  musical  sound  made  their  ears  tingle  with 
pleasant  home  thoughts — the  sweet,  melodious  confusion  of  wagon- 
bells,  clashing  rhythmically  along  the  street,  and  they  soon  recog- 
nized Long’s  fine  team  of  horses,  each  proudly  shaking  the  music 
from  his  crest,  and  responding  to  the  guttural  commands  of  Will- 
iam Grove,  who  strode  along  with  an  expressionless  face  and  a sprig 
of  mistletoe  in  his  cap,  cracking  his  whip,  and  accompanied  by  his 
satellite  Jem,  who  bore  holly  in  his  hat.  A faint  gleam,  distantly 
resembling  a smile,  spread  over  William’s  face  at  the  greeting  of  the 
two  young  men,  and  he  even  w^ent  so  far  as  to  issue  the  strange 
monosyllable  which  brought  his  team  to  a standstill  at  their  request, 
while  the  more  youthful  and  impassioned  Jem  expanded  into  a dis- 
tinct grin,  and  replied  that  his  health  w^as  “middling.” 

“ Well,  and  how  are  all  the  Malbourne  folk?  and  are  any  of  our 
people  in  Oldport  to-day,  Grove?  ” 

“I  ain’t  zeed  none  as  I know's  on,”  he  replied,  after  a profound 
consideration. 

“Any  of  the  Malbourne  folk  ‘gone  up  the  steps’  to-day?” 
asked  Everard,  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  town  hall,  which  was 
closed,  with  its  clock  glittering  in  the  sunshine. 

“Ah!  ’tain’t  often  we  goos  up  steps,”  returned  William,  who 
knew  well  that  the  steps  referred  to  were  those  conducting  the 
malefactor  before  the  magistrates  at  the  towm  hall,  and  which  were 
numerous  and  unpleasant  to  climb  with  a burdened  conscience. 
“We  never  knows,  though,”  he  added,  in  an  unusual  burst  of  mor- 
alizing, “ who  med  be  the  next.” 


42 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


“ I hope  it  won’t  be  you,  William,”  returned  Everard ; “if  ir  is, 
it  won’t  be  for  robbing  those  fine  horses  of  their  corn.  Why,  they 
look  as  fit  as  filberts,”  he  added,  patting  the  leader. 

“It  wun’t  be  you  neither,  doctor,”  growled  William,  affection- 
ately ; “for  all  they  zes  as  how  you  done  for  Jem  Martin,  a-cutting 
of  him  open  and  a-zewing  of  him  up  so  many  times,  and  pretty  nigh 
pisened  Mam  Lee.” 

“ Do  they  say  that?  ” laughed  Everard.  “ And  this  is  fame,  as 
Mr.  Crummies  observed,  Cyril.  Well,  look  here,  William  ! you  take 
these  bags  of  ours,  if  you  think  the  wagon  can  stand  it,  and  fetch 
our  portmanteaus  from  the  station.  Jem  can  run  up  the  hili  for 
them.” 

“ Our  luggage,  William,”  explained  Cyril,  “if  it  won’t  put  you 
out  of  your  way.  We  are  going  home  on  foot,  and  didn’t  know 
how  on  earth  to  get  our  things  out  till  we  met  you.” 

After  deep  cogitation,  and  some  assistance  from  the  quicker  in- 
telligence of  Jem,  the  nature  of  the  service  he  was  required  to 
render  at  last  dawned  upon  William  Grove’s  intellect,  which  was 
apparently  situated  at  a long  distance  from  the  material  world,  and 
he  consented  with  gruff  heartiness,  and,  waking  all  the  five  little 
peals  of  music  with  one  motion  of  his  whip,  started  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  station. 

“A  happy  New  Year  to  you!  ” the  two  friends  cried  together 
at  parting. 

“ And  beware  of  going  up  the  steps,”  added  Everard.  “Upon 
my  word,  Cyril,  I should  like  to  explore  the  recesses  of  that  fel- 
low’s moral  consciousness.  He  is  apparently  up  to  the  level  of  the 
most  advanced  thinkers  of  the  day.  He  evidently  looks  upon 
crime  as  a misfortune  dependent  upon  quite  intrinsic  circum- 
stances.” 

“ They  all  do,”  returned  Cyril.  “ It  is  the  part  of  Christianity 
to  convince  the  world  of  §in.” 

“ Who  shall' say  how  far  a man’s  will  consents  to  his  acts?” 
added  Everard,  musingly.  “I  hope  some  day  to  be  able  to  give 
myself  to  the  study  of  mental  disease,  and  more  accurately  trace 
the  connection  between  that  and  crime.” 

“Let  us  forget  both  this  one  day,”  said  Cyril,  whose  spirits  had 
undergofie  a wonderful  change  in  the  last  half-hour,  and  were  now 
gay  even  to  boyishness. 

Everard  fell  readily  into  his  humor,  and,  chatting  and  laughing. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


43 


the  friends  soon  passed  the  streets  of  the  little  town  and  its  minia- 
ture suburbs,  and  gained  the  pretty  village  of  Chalkburne,  the 
Norman  tower  of  which  showed  in  the  sunlight  fresh  and  unworn 
by  its  eight  centuries  of  storm,  and  greeted  the  travelers  with  the 
music  of  its  chiming  hour  as  they  walked  through  the  linden- 
girdled  churchyard,  rejoicing  in  their  youth  and  the  live  wintry 
air. 

Cyril  had  the  gift  of  conversation,  which  Everard  somewhat 
lacked,  and  the  talk  was  brilliant  and  sparkled  with  his  ready  wit 
and  quick  repartee,  in  which  the  doctor  was  continually  worsted, 
greatly  to  his  own  good-humored  content.  His  love  for  Cyril  and 
his  admiration  for  his  gifts  were  boundless.  The  two  friends  had 
passed  all  their  school-time  together,  Everard  riding  daily  to  Mal- 
bourne  to  study  with  Cyril’s  tutor,  Mr.  Maitland’s  curate ; and  in 
those  young  days  the  hero-worship  began,  the  elder  boy,  whose 
mental  powers  were  slower  if  more  solid,  admiring,  protecting,  and 
helping  the  bright-eyed,  clever  child  who  shared  his  studies  and  so 
often  distanced  him.  They  met  again  at  Cambridge,  where  the 
senior  was  only  one  year  ahead  of  his  two-years  junior,  and  there 
Everard  found  fresh  cause  to  admire  his  brilliant  and  successful 
friend,  who  gathered  friends  and  admirers  innumerable  about  him, 
and  won  laurels,  both  literary  and  social. 

And.  now  family  ties  promised  to  unite  them  more  closely,  and 
Everard  was  glad — far  more  glad  than  Maitland,  whose  affection 
for  his  friend,  though  warm,  had  not  the  slightest  element  of  hero- 
worship,  but  was,  on  the  contrary,  flavored  with  a good  spice  of 
condescension.  With  all  his  imagination  and  quick  sympathy, 
Cyril  did  not  see  that  Henry  possessed  those  solid  and  patient 
mental  gifts  which  readily  master  the  facts  of  physical  science,  and, 
above  all,  had  the  peculiar  faculty  which  may  be  called  scientific 
imagination — tiiat  he  was,  in  short,  one  of  those  chosen  few  who 
make  new  epochs  in  the  history  of  scientific  research.  Cyril  looked 
upon  his  enthusiasm  for  his  profession  as  praiseworthy,  but  inep 
plicable.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Henry  crawled  upon  the  earth, 
while  he  soared  in  the  vast  heaven’s  blue.  Such  was  the  bond 
which  united  the  two  hard-working  young  men  who  walked  along 
the  chalky  road  that  bracing  afternoon  at  the  end  of  December,  to 
pass  a week’s  well-earned  holiday  under  the  friendly  roof  of  Mal- 
hourne  Rectory. 


u 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


CHAPTER  Y. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  shining  peacefully  upon  the  thatched 
roofs  of  Malbourne,  on  the  dark  gray  spire  of  its  tree-girdled 
church,  and  on  the  southwest  front  of  Malbourne  Rectory.  At  one 
of  the  sun-lighted  windows  sat  Lilian  Maitland,  busily  writing,  her 
face  directed  to  the  prospect  without,  which  she  occasionally 
looked  upon  in  her  thoughtful  pauses. 

The  lawn  sloped  quickly  from  the  windows  to  a road  which  was 
concealed  by  trees,  and  beyond  which  rose  the  park-like  grounds 
of  hforthover  House  in  such  a manner  as  to  appear  but  a continua- 
tion of  the  Rectory  grounds.  Somewhere  down  in  the  hollow  by 
the  road  there  danced  and  murmured  the  bright  little  stream  which 
gave  its  name  to  Malbourne,  and  which  Lilian  knew  was  sparkling 
gayly  now  in  the  sunshine,  as  it  washed  the  drooping  hart’s-tongue 
waving  from  its  mossy  bank.  Beyond  the  cluster  of  village  roofs 
on  the  right  spread  a range  of  flat,  windy  fields  to  the  unseen  sea. 
Behind  the  Rectory,  and  on  the  left  of  Lilian’s  window,  rose  the 
bleak  chalk  downs,  strong  barriers  against  the  wild  salt  winds 
which  swept  over  those  regions  summer  and  winter  from  the 
sea. 

Mark  Antony,  the  cat,  sat  demurely  on  the  table  by  the  blotting- 
book,  thoughtiully  scanning  the  sunny  landscape,  and  pretending  not 
to  see  the  pert  little  robin  on  the  lawn,  while  he  occasionally  ap- 
pealed to  Lilian’s  sympathies  by  rubbing  his  velvet  head  against  her 
cheek,  or  giving  her  a dainty  little  bite,  which  he  had  copied  from 
his  human  friends,  under  the  impression  that  it  was  a kiss.  In  a 
low  chair,  between  the  table  and  the  fire,  sat  a very  pretty,  slender 
girl,  toying  with  a piece  of  fancy  work,  but  really  intent  upon 
trying  to  win  a glance  or  responsive  purr  from  Mark  Antony,  who 
regarded  all  her  efibrts  with  haughty  indifference,  and  continued  to 
evolve  his  philosophy  of  the  visible  universe  unmoved. 

“He  is  so  tantalizing !”  she  cried,  throwing  away  her  work 
with  a pretty  pettish  gesture.  “ If  he  would  only  once  show  some 
deference  to  me,  I should  not  care.  Puss,  puss,  I say ! Come  to 
me  at  once,  sir  ! ” 

“ He  thoroughly  understands  the  secret  of  his  own  supremacy, 
Marion,”  replied  Lilian,  coming  to  the  end  of  her  writing,  and  softly 
stroking  the  animal’s  snow-white  breast.  “ He  knows  as  well  as 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


45 


70U  do  that  you  would  think  nothing  of  his  caresses  if  he  lavished 
them  unasked.” 

“ Selfish,  hateful  animal  I ” 

“He  is  not  selfish,”  replied  Lilian;  “he  is  a profound  student 
of  human  nature.  He  has  discovered  that  the  deepest  joy  a human 
being  can  taste  is  to  love  disinterestedly.  He  therefore  offers  man- 
kind this  enjoyment  by  permitting  them  to  adore  him  at  a distance. 
Dogs  afford  a far  lower  enjoyment — that  of  being  loved.” 

“ Dogs  are  right,”  said  Marion,  her  brown  eyes  softening  in  a 
wistful  gaze  ; “ the  happiest  thing  is  to  be  loved.  I should  die  if 
people  didn’t  love  me.  I almost  hated  Cyril  when  I thought,  in 
that  dreadful  time  last  spring,  that  he  didn’t  care  for  me.” 

“ It  is  delicious  to  be  loved,”  rejoined  Lilian,  “ but  to  love  is 
best.  How  happy  Henry  is  in  his  affection  for  you!  You  are  the 
dearest  thing  in  the  world  to  him,  and  yet  I think  you  care  little 
comparatively  for  him ; you  even  prefer  your  brother  Leslie,  who 
is  always  too  busy  with  sport  and  gayeties  to  write  to  you.” 

“ Well,  it  is  different,”  replied  Marion.  “Henry  is  so  full  of 
learning  that  he  seems  older  than  Leslie,  who  is  the  darling  of  his 
regiment  and  so  full  of  life.  And  then,  Henry  is  not  engaged.  I 
am  sure  he  has  never  cared  for  any  girl,  and  will  die  an  old  bache- 
lor. Of  course,  he  cares  much  more  for  me  than  I care  for  him. 
And  he  is  so  devoted  to  Cyril.” 

“ I think,”  said  Lilian,  pressing  her  cheek  against  her  pet’s  glossy 
fur,  “ that  neither  of  you  know  the  real  worth  of  Henry.” 

“ Oh,  he  is  the  best  old  fellow  in  the  world,  hut  not  clever  and 
handsome  like  Cyril,  and  without  the  dash  of  Leslie.  By  the  way, 
I suppose  those  had  boys  will  he  here  to-night.” 

“ Ho  doubt  they  will  turn  up  some  time,  unless  something  serious 
detains  them,  in  which  case  they  will  telegraph.  Cyll  has  promised 
to  preach  to-morrow.  Are  you  quite  sure,  Marion,  that  he  did  not 
mention  his  train  ? He  always  likes  me  to  meet  him  at  Oldport.” 

“ He  said  he  would  write  later  to  name  the  train.  I suppose  he 
forgot.” 

“ He  does  forget  now,  Marion,  as  he  never  used  to.  He  is  kill- 
ing himself  in  that  dreadful  parish.  Oh,  I shall  he  so  thankful  when 
you  are  married!  There  will  be  a perfect  holiday  to  begin  with, 
and  then  you  will  keep  him  within  reasonable  bounds.” 

Marion  laughed.  “ He  will  have  to  take  care  of  me  as  well  as 
the  parish,”  she  said.  “But  what  is  this?  ” 


46 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


“ This”  proved  to  be  merely  Eliza,  the  parlor-maid,  who. entered 
with  her  usual  unmoved  countenance. 

“It  is  only  Stevens,  Miss  Lilian,”  she  said.  “And  could  you 
please  step  down  to  the  forge  at  once  ? ” 

“The  forge!”  exclaimed  Marion,  with  wide  eyes  of  astonish- 
ment. 

“ What  is  the  matter  there,  Eliza?  ” asked  Lilian,  tranquilly. 

“ Only  Hotspur,  Mr.  Ingram’s  horse,  miss.  They’ve  been  trying 
this  hour  to  get  him  shod.  Straun  says  he  wouldn’t  touch  him  for 
a hundred  pounds.” 

“But  what  has  the  parish  clerk  to  do  with  shoeing  horses?  ” ex- 
claimed the  bewildered  Marion. 

“Or  the  parson’s  daughter ?”  added  Lilian,  laughing.  “Why, 
nothing  is  done  in  the  village  without  Stevens,  Marion.  He  and 
Grandfer  together  are  the  oracles  of  Malbourne.  Ho,  you  shall  not 
come  with  me ; you  would  be  frightened  to  death.  Go  and  see  if 
mother  wants  anything.  She  will  be  waking  now.” 

“ Oh,  I say,  Lilian!  ” cried  a little  voice,  as  Lennie  burst  in,  rosy 
and  excited,  “ do  come  along.  Such  larks ! Hotspur  has  kicked  a 
cart  to  atoms,  and  now  he  is  letting  fly  in  all  directions,  and  is  kill- 
ing Judkins,  and  there’s  Stevens  stamping  at  the  back  door,  and  the 
whole  village  with  its  hair  on  end.” 

Hyperbole  is  Lennie’s  favorite  figure,”  commented  Lilian,  go- 
ing out  into  the  hall  and  taking  her  hat  and  jacket.  “ Run  on,  Len- 
nie, and  say  I am  just  coming.  Matter?  Oh,  my  dearest  Marion, 
nothing ! Only  that  Ingram  Swaynestone  spoils  his  horses’  tem- 
pers, and  then  is  surprised  that  his  servants  can’t  manage  them.” 

In  another  minute  Lilian  had  passed  with  quick,  light  step  and 
erect  carriage  down  the  drive,  and  along  the  village  high-road,  bor- 
dered with  its  little  gardens,  in  which  one  or  two  belated  autumn 
flowers  still  made  a brave  show  against  the  wintry  rigor.  She 
went  quickly,  but  without  hurry,  and  found  time  on  the  way  to 
give  some  directions  about  the  church  to  the  clerk,  a lean,  rugged 
figure,  stooping  slightly  beneath  the  fardel  of  some  fifty  winters, 
and  crowned  with  a shock  of  grizzled  red  hair,  who  walked  and 
talked  excitedly  at  her  side. 

Soon  she  saw  the  forge,  from  the  black  heart  of  which  streamed 
a ruddy  glow,  looking  lurid  in  contrast  with  the  sunshine,  and 
round  which  was  grouped  a dense  little  crowd  of  women  and  chil- 
dren, with  a few  men.  Straun,  the  smith,  a burly,  grimy,  bare- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND. 


47 


armed  figure  in  a leathern  apron,  stood  in  an  attitude  of  defiant 
despair,  one  strong  hand  grasping  his  great  hammer,  which  he  had 
flung  on  the  anvil,  and  calling  silently  on  Heaven  to  witness  that 
he  was  ready  to  shoe  Christian  horses,  however  rampant,  but  not 
demons,  hippogriffs,  or  any  such  uncanny  monsters.  Near  him, 
looking  rather  pale,  hut  resolute,  as  became  one  superior  to  the 
weaker  emotions,  an  old,  bent,  withered  man,  with  shrewd  gray 
eyes  and  pursed-up  mouth,  stood  leaning  forward  on  a stout  oaken 
stick,  and  shook  his  head  as  one  who  despaired  of  finding  virtue  in 
these  degenerate  days  in  either  man  or  beast. 

“ And  I zays,  as  I zed  afore,”  he  repeated,  emphasizing  his  words 
•with  the  stick,  which  he  dug  into  the  ground  with  all  the  force  of 
his  two  withered  hands,  “ zend  for  Miss  Lilian — zend  for  she ! ” 

“Lard  love  ’ee,  Granfer,”  observed  a stout  fellow  in  a smock- 
frock,  who  stood  inside  the  forge  in  attendance  on  a couple  of  mass- 
ive, glossy-coated  cart-horses,  who  were  cozily  munching  some  hay 
dropped  before  them,  and  contemplating  the  proceedings  lazily  with 
their  great  soft  winking  eyes,  “ where’s  the  use  of  a gal?  ” a propo- 
sition received  by  Granfer  and  the  assembled  village  with  silent 
scorn. 

The  center  of  the  excited  little  crowd,  which  occasionally  burst 
asunder  and  flew  outward  with  a wild  mingling  of  women’s  and 
children’s  shrieks— for  the  men  skurried  off  with  a silent  celerity 
that  was  all  the  more  effectual — was  a beautiful  chestnut  horse,  not 
standing,  according  to  the  comfortable  and  decent  wont  of  horses, 
on  four  firmly-planted  feet,  but  outraging  people’s  belief  in  the  sta- 
bility of  natural  laws  by  rearing  himself  wildly  and  insecurely  on 
his  two  hind  legs,  and  dangling  from  his  mouth  in  mid-air  a miser- 
able white-faced  biped  in  sleeved  waistcoat  and  gaiters,  whose  cap 
had  fallen  off  and  whose  damp  hair  streamed  as  wildly  as  Hotspur’s 
own  frenetic  mane  and  quivering  tail.  Tired  of  this  folly,  with  his 
ears  laid  back,  his  nostrils  wide  and  red,  and  his  eyes  showing  noth- 
ing but  the  whites.  Hotspur  would  suddenly  drop  his  victim  to  his 
native  earth,  and,  plunging  forward  on  his  other  end,  as  if  intent  on 
turning  a somerset,  would  throw  his  hind  hoofs  up  toward  the 
sky  in  a manner  most  alarming  to  those  who  enjoyed  a near  view 
of  the  proceedings ; and  then,  wearying  of  this,  he  would  dance 
round  on  all  four  legs  at  once  in  a manner  utterly  bewildering  to 
contemplate. 

“ Why,  Hotspur,”  cried  Lilian,  in  her  clear,  mellow  voice,  as  shd 
4 


48 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


stepped  quickly  through  the  crowd  just  as  Hotspur  dropped  the 
unfortunate  groom  to  the  ground,  and  prepared  to  turn  himself  the 
other  way  up,  “ what  is  this,  old  fellow  ? ” and  she  caught  the  rein 
from  the  groom’s  hand,  pushing  the  latter  gently  away,  and  laid  her 
slender,  strong  white  hand  firmly  upon  the  quivering  neck  of  the 
maddened,  plunging  horse.  “ Fie,  Hotspur,  fie!  ” 

No  one  had  observed  Lilian’s  approach,  and  when  she  appeared 
as  if  dropped  from  the  skies  in  the  groom’s  place,  a sudden  quiet 
pervaded  every  human  face  and  limb,  the  crowd  fell  hack,  and  all 
looked  on,  save  the  skeptic  with  the  cart-horses,  with  an  air  of  tran- 
quil expectancy ; while  Lilian,  without  a trace  of  anxiety  or  agita- 
tion, talked  in  caressing,  reproving  tones  to  the  ill-conducted  steed, 
whose  limbs  had  quivered  into  some  approach  to  quiet  at  the  first 
touch  of  the  slender,  spirit-like  hand  on  his  neck. 

But  even  Lilian’s  magic  touch  could  not  expel  the  demon  of 
passion  at  once  from  the  maddened  creature.  He  still  reared  and 
plunged  and  danced,  in  a manner  that  led  the  spectators  to  give  him 
plenty  of  room  for  his  evolutions ; but  he  became  gradually  quieter, 
until  he  stood  as  Providence  intended  horses  should  stand,  on  all 
four  feet  at  once,  and  only  betrayed  the  internal  workings  of  his 
outraged  feelings  by  the  quivering  of  his  limbs  and  body,  the  work- 
ings of  his  ears  and  eyes,  and  the  redness  of  his  wide  nostrils,  while 
Lilian’s  musical  voice  never  ceased  its  low  monologue  of  soothing 
and  reproach,  and  her  hand  never  left  stroking  and  patting  his 
shining  neck  and  shoulders.  At  Hotspur’s  first  backward  rear, 
indeed,  her  hand  left  him  perforce,  and  she  only  avoided  being 
hoisted  in  mid-air  like  the  luckless  groom  by  giving  him  a long  rein, 
and  stepping  quickly  back  out  of  the  way  of  his  formidable  fore- 
feet. 

This  was  an  ugly  moment,  and  a woman  in  the  crowd  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  dismay,  and  turned  pale  at  the  sight  of  the  girl 
beneath  the  rearing  horse,  though  no  one  else  betrayed  the  least 
emotion,  not  even  the  skeptic  in  the  smock-frock,  whose  mouth  was 
too  widely  opened  in  astonishment  to  leave  room  for  his  features  to 
express  any  other  feeling;  but  Hotspur,  finding  that  Lilian  did  not 
balk  him  of  his  dance  on  his  hind  legs,  soon  desisted  from  that 
uncomfortable  performance,  and  yielded,  as  his  betters  frequently 
did,  gradually  to  the  soothing  charm  of  her  voice  and  touch,  until 
he  became,  figuratively  speaking,  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind. 
She  found  fault  with  Hotspur’s  bit,  and  pointed  out  the  undue 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


49 


tightness  of  his  girths  to  Judkins,  whose  cheeks  had  now  resumed 
their  native  ruddy  hue ; and  when  these  defects  were  remedied,  she 
led  the  horse  a little  way  along  the  road  and  back  again,  and  fed 
him  with  sugar  and  other  dainties,  till  Hotspur’s  heart  waxed  so 
glad  within  him  that  he  consented  to  stand  like  a lamb,  while 
Straun,  not  without  some  misgiving  in  his  bluff  face,  and  a mut- 
tered reference  to  his  wife  and  seven  children,  fitted  his  new  shoes 
on  to  his  restive  feet  with  what  speed  and  dexterity  he  could 
muster. 

“And  I zed,”  observed  Granfer,  again  striking  his  oaken  staff 
emphatically  on  the  ground,  and  looking  round  on  the  assembled 
village  as  if  for  applause,  “zed  I,  ‘Zend  for  Miss  Lilian — zend  for 
she’!” 

The  crowd,  in  the  mean  time,  had  been  augmented  by  the  ar- 
rival of  two  other  spectators,  who  were  unobserved  in  the  absorb- 
ing interest  evoked  by  Hotspur  and  his  conqueror.  One  was  a tall, 
finely  built  man,  somewhat  past  middle  life,  on  a good,  well-bred 
bay  horse,  which  he  rode  and  handled  with  perfect  horsemanship. 
He  stopped,  in  the  first  instance,  to  avoid  riding  over  the  village 
population;  and  in  the  second,  to  witness  the  curious  little  drama 
enacted  in  the  wintry  sunshine.  He  was  soon  joined  by  a gray- 
haired clergyman,  of  venerable  aspect  and  refined  features,  who 
looked  on  with  quiet  interest. 

“Upon  my  word,  Maitland,”  said  the  equestrian,  addressing  the 
latter,  “ this  is  a new  revelation  of  your  daughter’s  powers.  I was 
already  aware  that  she  soothed  the  troubles  and  quieted  the  con- 
sciences of  the  whole  village,  but  I did  not  know  that  she  under- 
took the  blacksmith’s  labors  as  well.” 

“My  daughter,”  replied  Mr.  Maitland,  tranquilly,  “has  received 
a very  singular  gift  from  the  Almighty.  She  can  subdue  any  ani- 
mal, tame  or  wild,  by  some  mysterious  virtue  of  touch,  voice,  or 
glance — perhaps  of  all  three.  Not  a very  lofty  gift,  perhaps,  Sir 
Lionel,  but  one  which  is  often  very  useful  in  a homely  way.” 

“But  surely,  Maitland,  you  can  not  approve  of  Lilian’s  rendering 
such  dangerous  services  as  these.  Are  you  not  afraid  for  her?  ” 

“ No ; I have  every  confidence  in  her  powers.  And  I do  not 
like  to  make  her  nervous  by  suggesting  danger.  Perhaps  one  secret 
of  her  influence  is  her  absolute  fearlessness.  Watch  the  expression 
of  her  eye.  No;  I like  my  child  to  render  whatever  service  she  is 
capable  of  to  her  fellow-creatures.  Parents  often  err,  I think,  by 


50 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


interfering  unnecessarily  with  their  children’s  actions.  Well,  Lilian, 
and  what  was  the  matter?”  he  asked,  as  the  crowd,  perceiving 
them,  fell  hack  respectfully,  with  courtesies  and  cap-touchings.  Jud- 
kins, receiving  his  four-footed  charge  from  Lilian’s  hand,  prepared 
to  mount  and  ride  away,  not  without  warning  from  Lilian,  and 
strict  injunctions  to  eschew  whipping  and  other  irritations,  and  to 
quiet  Hotspur’s  nerves  by  a good  canter  on  the  turf. 

‘‘  Only  a horse  with  a spoilt  temper,  father,”  she  replied.  “ How 
do  you  do.  Sir  Lionel  ? Tell  Mr.  Swaynestone  that  I mean  to  scold 
him  roundly  aboTit  Hotspur.  He  is  far  too  hot  himself  to  be  able 
to  indulge  in  chestnut  horses.  And,  indeed,  I am  not  sure  that  he 
ought  to  have  any  horse  at  all.” 

“ All  this,”  said  Sir  Lionel,  who  had  dismounted  and  taken  off 
his  hat  with  graceful,  old-fashioned  courtesy,  “I  will  faithfully  do, 
though  surely  one  word  from  yourself  would  have  more  effect  than 
volumes  I could  say.  Do  your  spells  work  only  on  the  lower  crea- 
tion, Lilian  ? ” 

“ I suppose  so,”  returned  Lilian,  turning  homeward  in  the 
reddening  sunbeams,  accompanied  by  the  two  gentlemen  and  the 
horse,  which  latter  she  patted  to  his  great  satisfaction.  “My  spells 
consist  chiefly  of  sympathy  and  affection,  and  these  are  perfect  with 
innocent  animals  and  children,  but  only  partial  with  sinful  ihen.” 

“ Ben  Lee  will  never  forgive  you  for  inducing  me  to  drive  with- 
out bearing-reins,”  said  Sir  Lionel.  “ I wish  you  could  have  seen 
the  sight,  Maitland.  Lee  ignominiously  dethroned,  your  daughter 
and  myself  on  the  box,  Lilian  handling  the  ribbons,  and  driving  me 
up  and  down  before  the  house  without  bearing-reins.  Lee  never 
drives  out  now  without  preparing  for  his  last  moment,  poor  fellow. 
I hope  you  will  not  help  poachers,  Lilian.  I hear  you  can  surround 
yourself  with  fifty  pheasants  at  any  moment  in  our  woods.” 

“If  I were  to  hurt  anything,  I think  my  power  would  be  gone; 
and  even  if  I did  not  love  a thing  I should  have  no  power,  for  I have 
no  influence  on  reptiles.” 

“ And  does  Cyril,  who  is  so  like  you,  share  your  power?  ” 

“As  a child  he  did,”  interposed  Mr.  Maitland.  “ You  remember 
the  bull  that  killed  Lee’s  father.  Sir  Lionel  ? Imagine  my  feelings 
on  seeing  the  twins,  then  about  six  years  old,  stroking  him,  and 
trying  to  reach  by  jumping  up  to  his  terrific  horns!  Still,  Cyril  has 
an  unusual  influence  over  animals,  though  it  becomes  fainter.  He 
has  more  power  with  human  beings  than  his  sister.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAK  MAITLAND.  51 

“Yet  Lilian  stopped  that  fellow  who  was  beating  his  wife  to 
death.” 

“ And  the  whole  village  looking  on  and  not  lifting  a finger — 
the  cowards!  ” Lilian  flashed  out.  “He  fell  down  in  sheer  fright 
when  I rushed  at  him.  Come  in,  Sir  Lionel,  and  have  some  tea,” 
she  added,  as  they  reached  the  gates. 

But  Sir  Lionel  refused  the  tea,  having  still  some  distance  to  ride 
before  dark. 

“I  am  in  Lady  Swaynestone’s  service  to-night,”  he  said,  “and 
she  bid  me  ask  you  to  come  and  counsel  her  about  some  distribution 
of  coals  or  what  not,  when  you  have  a spare  moment.  I wish  you 
could  also  exorcise  the  demon  of  extravagance  from  that  boy  In- 
gram.” 

“ She  nearly  scolds  the  poor  fellow  to  death  as  it  is,”  said  Mr. 
Maitland.  “We  are  expecting  Henry  Everard  to-night.” 

“ So  I hear.  A promising  fellow,  Sir  Andrew  Smithson  tells  me. 
He  was  both  clever  and  kind  in  his  treatment  of  Lee’s  wife  last 
spring.  As  a lad,  I thought  him  rather  dull.  However,  we  all  pin 
our  faith  on  Dr.  Everard  now  at  Swaynestone.” 

And  bidding  them  farewell.  Sir  Lionel  sprang  like  any  youth 
to  his  saddle,  and  rode  away  at  a canter,  looking  like  a very  prince 
as  his  tall  and  gracefully  erect  figure  disappeared  among  the  trees 
in  the  dusk. 

The  group  at  the  forge,  meantime,  rightly  judged  that  so  much 
heat,  toil,  and  anxiety  required  the  alleviation  of  moisture,  and 
Straun,  casting  his  hammer  aside,  proclaimed  his  intention  of  ad- 
journing for  solace  to  the  Sun,  which  stood  at  the  corner  by  the 
cross-roads,  a few  paces  further  down  the  road. 

“ Come  on,  Stevens,”  he  said,  “and  toss  me  who’ll  treat  Gran- 
fer.”’ 

The  guardian  of  the  cart  horses  thought  it  a pity  not  to  follow 
so  good  an  example ; so  also  did  Hale,  the  wheelwright,  who  lived 
at  the  opposite  corner;  and  Wax,  who  chanced  to  be  the  school- 
master, and  Baines,  the  tailor,  whose  monotonous  indoor  occupa- 
tion, though  varied  with  pig-jobbing  and  gardening,  required  fre- 
quent solace  of  this  nature.  Hale’s  brother  Tom,  a soldier  resting 
from  war’s  alarms  in  his  native  village  in  a very  undress  uniform, 
consisting  of  no  belt,  a tunic  unbuttoned  all  the  way  down  and  dis- 
playing a large  expanse  of  striped  shirt,  trousers  tucked  up  round 
the  ankles,  a short  pipe,  and  a muffin-cap  perilously  askew,  con- 


52 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


sidered  it  a breach  of  manners  unbecoming  a soldier  and  a gentle- 
man to  permit  these  worthy  men  to  drink  without  his  assistance ; 
and  similar  feelings  animated  his  brother  Jim,  a sailor,  beariug  the 
legend,  “H.  M.  S.  B6lleTop]ion^'^\on  his  cap.  So  the  brave  fellows, 
accommodating  their  pace  to  that  of  Granfer,  which  was  more  dig- 
nified than  swift,  turned  in  as  one  man  beneath  the  low  doorway 
of  the  Sun,  and  grouped  themselves  about  the  cozy,  sanded  bar, 
where  the  fire-light  was  beginning  to  look  cheerily  ruddy  in  the 
fading  afternoon. 

‘‘  And  I zaid,”  added  Granfer,  striking  the  sanded  floor  dogmatic- 
ally with  his  stick,  “ ‘ Zend  for  Miss  Lilian — zend  fur  she.’  ” 

Ay,  Granfer,”  growled  the  smith,  “ it’s  all  very  well  for  Miss 
Lilian.  She  ain’t  got  a wife  and  seven  children,  and  her  bread  to 
git.” 

“ I zes,  zes  I,”  interposed  the  skeptic  in  the  smock-frock,  who 
had  taken  a pull  at  his  tankard,  and  was  removing  the  foam  from 
his  lips  by  the  simple  application  of  the  back  of  his  hand,  “ ‘ Where’s 
the  use  of  a gal?  ’ I’ve  a zin  it,  and  I believes  it.  I shouldn’t  a be- 
lieved it  if  I hadn’t  a zin  it.” 

“You  never  believes  nothink,”  observed  Jim.  “Ah!  if  you’d 
a sin  what  I’ve  a sin  aboord  the  Belly  ruffian — ” 

“ Or  if  he’d  a sin  they  there  snake-charmers  in  India,  what  he 
won’t  believe  in,”  added  the  soldier. 

“Ah!”  broke  in  the  clerk,  “you  put  Miss  Lilian  aboord  the 
Bellyruffian,,  or  take  her  out  to  Injy  and  let  her  charm  snakes,  and 
I’ll  war’nt  she’ll  do  it.  That  ar  buoy  Dick,  whatever  she  done  to 
he,  nobody  knows.  A bad  ’un  he  wer,  wouldn’t  do  nothing  he 
hadn’t  a mind  to.  You  med  bate  ’un  till  you  couldn’t  stand.  Wax 
have  broke  sticks  about  his  back,  and  covered  ’un  with  weals,  but 
catch  he  gwine  to  school  if  he’d  a mind  to  miche.  I zes  to  Miss 
Lilian,  I zes,  ‘I’ve  a hate  that  ar  buoy  black  and  blue,’  I zes,  ‘and 
I’ve  a kep  ’un  without  vittles  this  two  days,  and  he  wun’t  do 
nothun  he  an’t  a mind  to.’  And  she  ups  and  ses,  ‘ Stevens,’  she 
ses,  ^I  should  like  to  bate  you,’  she  ses ; ‘I  should  like  to  bate  you 
green  and  yaller,’  she  ses.  ‘ Lard  love  ’ee,  Miss  Lilian,  whatever 
would  ye  bate  I for  ? ’ I ses,  ses  I.  ‘ Because  you  are  a fool, 
Stevens,’  she  ses,  ‘and  you  are  ruining  that  buoy,  and  turning  him 
into  a animal,’  she  ses.  And  she  took  ’un  up  Eectory,  and  kep’  ’un 
there  a day,  and  sent  ’un  home  as  good  as  gold.  And  she  made  me 
promise  I wouldn’t  bate  ’un  no  more  for  two  good  weeks,  and  I 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


53 


ain’t  bate  ’un  zince,  and  he’ll  do  what  he’s  told  now  without  the 
stick.  ‘I  should  like  to  bate  you  green  and  yaller,  Stevens,’ she 
ses.  And  she’d  a done  it,  she  would,  green  and  yaller — ah ! that 
she  would,  mates.” 

“ I don’t  deny,”  said  Baines,  the  tailor,  whose  profession  ren- 
dered him  morbid,  revolutionary,  and  inclined  to  distrust  the 
utility  of  existing  institutions,  “ but  what  Miss  Lilian  may  have  her 
uses.” 

Ah,  Baines,”  interrupted  the  soldier,  “ you  ain’t  such  a fool  as 
you  looks,  after  all.” 

Before  the  stupefied  Baines,  who  was  accustomed  to  have  his 
remarks  received  with  reverence,  could  reply  to  this  insult,  public 
feeling  was  suddenly  outraged  by  the  following  observation  from 
the  smock-frocked  skeptic,  the  want  of  wisdom  in  whom  was  ac- 
counted for  by  his  having  only  recently  come  to  Malbourne,  from  a 
village  at  least  ten  miles  off“  that  center  of  intelligence. 

“But  what  shall  us  do  when  Miss  Lilian  gets  married  ? ” 

“ Married ! ” shouted  the  clerk.  “ And  who  ses  she’s  a-gwine 
to  marry?  ” 

“ She  med  marry ; then  agen  she  medn’t,”  replied  this  foolish 
person,  unabashed  by  the  dark  glances  bent  upon  him. 

“Miss  Lilian,”  observed  Granfer,  who  had  been  indulgently 
listening  while  he  dispatched  his  beer,  and  thus  afibrding  weaker 
wits  the  opportunity  of  exercising  themselves  during  his  forbear- 
ance, “ ain’t  a-gwine  to  marry  nobody  ” ; and,  thrusting  his  staff 
forward  and  resting  his  two  hands  upon  it,  Granfer  looked  round 
the  assembly  with  austere  menace  in  his  shrewd  gray  eyes. 

Nobody  dared  reply  to  this,  and  silence  prevailed,  broken  only 
by  the  sound  of  good  liquor  disappearing  down  men’s  throats,  and 
a weak,  half-audible  murmur  from  the  smock-frock  about  girls 
being  girls,  whether  gentle  or  simple. 

“I  zes  to  my  missus,  vive  year  agone  last  Middlemas,  zes  I,” 
continued  Granfer,  who  chanced  to  be  the  grandsire  of  the  in- 
dignant clerk,  “‘Miss  Lilian  ain’t  one  o’  your  marrying  zart’”; 
and  again  Granfer  looked  round  the  assembly  as  if  challenging 
them  to  deny  the  undeniable,  and  was  met  by  an  assenting  mur- 
mur of  “ Ah’s!  ” 

“Miss  Lilian,”  pursued  Granfer,  with  an  air  of  inspiration,  “is 
turned  vour  and  twenty.  Vour  and  twenty  year  old  come  last 
May  is  they  twins.  Well  I minds  the  night  they  was  barned.  The 


54 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


last  time  as  ever  I druv  a ’oss.  A vrosty  night  ’twas,  and  nipped 
all  the  archards  miles  round,  and  there  warn’t  no  vruit  that  year. 
Ah!  Varmer  Long  he’d  a lost  dree  and  dirty  yowes  lambing-time 
that  year.  Well  I minds  it.  I druv  pony-chaise  into  Oldport,  and 
vetched  out  t’  doctor.  And  I zes  to  my  missus,  1 zes,  when  I come 
home,  ‘Master’s  got  twins!  ’ Ay,  that’s  what  I zed,  zure  enough. 
And  my  missus  she  zes,  zes  she,  ‘ Lard  love  ’ee,  Granfer,’  she  zes, 

‘ you  don’t  zay  zo ! ’ she  zes  ” ; and  again  Granfer  paused  and 
looked  round  to  perceive  the  effect  of  his  eloquence. 

“ Ay,”  said  the  landlord,  feeling  that  courtesy  now  obliged  him 
to  entertain  the  intellects  as  well  as  the  bodies  of  his  guests,  “twins 
is  zummat  when  it  comes  to  that.  Twins  is  bad  enough  for  poor 
volk,  hut  when  it  comes  to  ladies  and  they.  Lard  ’a  massey  ! ” 

“ Ah ! ” murmured  Granfer,  shaking  his  head  with  profound 
wisdom,  and  at  the  same  time  regretfully  contemplating  the 
vacuum  in  his  beer-pot,  “them  twins  done  for  Mrs.  Maitland. 
She  ain’t  ben  the  zame  ’ooman  zince,  never  zimmed  to  perk  up 
agen  arter  that.  Vine  children  they  was,  too,  as  ever  you’d  wish 
to  zee,  and  brought  up  on  Varmer  Long’s  Alderney  cow,  kep’ 
special  vor  ’um,  as  I used  to  vetch  the  milk  marnin’  and  evenin’. 
I did,  zure  enough.” 

Here  Tom,  the  soldier,  who,  in  virtue  of  his  red  coat,  was  hound 
to  be  susceptible  to  feminine  charms,  opined  that  Miss  Lilian  was 
still  “ a smartish-looking  gal  ” ; and  Jim,  the  sailor,  added  that  he 
didn’t  see  why  she  shouldn’t  pick  up  some  smart  lad  yet,  for  his 
heart  was  warm,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  consign  an  unoffending 
girl  to  the  chills  of  single  blessedness.  There  was  Lieutenant 
Everard  of  the  Bellerophon.,  a frequent  visitor  at  the  Rectory,  for 
example — as  smart  an  officer  as  Jim  had  ever  seen,  he  added. 

“ Ah,  goo  on  wi’  ye ! ” cfie'd  Granfer,  greatly  refreshed  by  the 
polite  replenishment  of  his  pot  at  Tom’s  expense.  “ Miss  Lilian’s  as 
pretty  a maid  as  Tom’ll  zee  in  a day’s  march.  But  she  wun’t  marry 
nobody.  Vur  why  ? zes  I.  Cause  she  wun’t  ha’e  the  common  zart, 
and  the  upper  crust  they  wun’t  ha’e  she.” 

“ W’atever’s  come  over  Judkins  now?  ” asked  Hale,  the  wheel- 
wright, musingly.  “ He’d  had  a drop  too  much ’s  afternoon,  and 
he  was  a latherin’  into  Hotspur  like  mad  coming  down  shoot.*  He 
hadn’t  ought  to  treat  a boss  like  that.” 


* A short  steep  hill  on  the  highway. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


55 


“ A man  med  well  drink,”  said  the  tailor,  “ afore  trusting  his- 
eelf  to  a animal  like  that  there.  Steady  as  Charlie  Judkins  was, 
poor  chap  1 What  these  ’ere  rich  men  got  to  answer  for ! ” 

“ I never  zeen  a ’oss  rampageouser,”  replied  the  smith ; “ but  I 
never  zeen  a ’oss  Miss  Lilian  couldn’t  quiet,  or  a ass  either.” 

“Your  missus  ’ull  be  sending  for  her  one  day,  then,”  said  Jim; 
and  the  whole  assembly  broke  into  a loud  guffaw,  after  which  Gran- 
fer  very  impressively  related  the  history  of  the  hunted  fox,  which 
appeared  one  day  with  his  paws  on  the  window-sill  of  Lilian’s  sit- 
ting-room, followed  by  the  pack  in  full  cry,  and  the  whole  field  at 
no  great  distance.  He  told  how  Lilian  quickly  opened  the  window, 
Heynard  leaped  in,  and  she  as  quickly  shut  it ; and  how  the  hunts- 
man, on  finding  the  hounds  at  check  round  the  Rectory  window, 
looked  in,  and  was  greatly  shocked  to  see  poor  Reynard’s  pointed 
nose  and  glittering  eyes  peering  out  from  among  the  skirts  of  a 
young  lady  sitting  quietly  at  work,  and  tranquilly  surveying  the 
baffled  hounds  baying  outside. 

Lilian  refused  to  deliver  up  her  fugitive,  holding  parley  with  the 
master  of  the  hounds  through  the*Closed  and  latched  window,  until 
the  latter  had  withdrawn  his  pack ; and  it  was  not  until  the  prem- 
ises had  been  cleared  a good  half-hour  of  every  vestige  of  hound, 
horse,  and  man,  that  she  unbolted  door  or  window,  and  suffered 
her  weary,  panting  prisoner  to  depart,  which  he  did  with  evident 
regret  and  thankfulness  for  hospitality — a hospitality  poorly  re- 
quited by  him,  since  he  managed  to  snatch  a chick  from  the  poul- 
try-yard in  effecting  his  escape. 

But  no  one  seemed  to  think  there  was  anything  unusual  in  Lili- 
an’s power  over  living  creatures ; it  was  simply  what  one  expected 
of  Miss  Lilian,  just  as  one  expected  church  bells  to  ring  and  cocks 
to  crow.  Hor  had  any  one  thanked  her  for  assisting  so  effectively 
at  the  shoeing  of  Hotspur. 

Then  followed  a long-  history  of  animals  healed  by  Lilian,  and 
in  particular  of  a dog  of  Ingram  Swaynestone’s,  which  the  latter 
was  going  to  shoot,  when  she  begged  its  life,  and  nursed  it  into 
health.  Also  of  the  racers  Ingram  had  at  a trainer’s,  and  the  money 
he  lost  by  them ; of  the  oaks  and  beeches  at  Swaynestone,  which 
had  to  expiate  these  losses ; and  of  the  young  fellow’s  probable  de- 
scent to  beggary  through  the  paths  of  pleasure. 

“ He’s  a vine  young  veller,”  observed  Granfer,  at  the  close  of 
his  second  pot ; “ a wild  ’un  zurely.  His  vather  was  a wild  ’un, 


56 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


too ; ’tis  the  blood  and  the  high  veeding.  So  was  his  grandfather. 
I minds  things  as  Sir  Lionel  did  would  make  ’ee  all  stare.  Men  is 
just  the  same  as  osses— veed  ’em  up,  and  they  vlings.  The  well- 
bred  ’uns  is  vive  times  skittish er  than  t’others.  Wuld  Sir  Lionel, 
he  was  the  wildest  of  all — druv  his  stags  into  Oldport  vour-in-hand, 
he  did,  and  killed  dree  or  vour  volks  in  the  streets.  Ah ! times  isn't 
what  they  was,”  sighed  Granfer,  regretfully  draining  his  pot. 

By  this  time  it  was  dark  night.  The  Sun  windows  threw  a 
warm  glow  over  the  road ; the  stars  sparkled  keenly  above  the 
thatched  roof  of  the  little  hostel;  and  the  smell  of  wood-smoke 
mingled  with  the  appetizing  odor  of  fried  pork,  red  herrings,  and 
onion  soup,  rising  all  over  the  village,  warned  the  topers  that  the 
hour  of  supper  was  approaching,  and  they  would  have  dispersed, 
however  unwillingly,  but  for  the  chimes  of  wagon-hells  along  the 
road,  which  beguiled  them  into  waiting  while  William  Grove  depos- 
ited his  parcels  at  the  Sun,  took  the  one  glass  offered  by  the  host, 
and  recounted  the  news  from  Oldport. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

On  looking  hack  in  after  life  to  that  brisk  winter’s  walk,  both 
Everard  and  Maitland  held  it  as  one  of  their  sunniest  memories. 
Every  step  seemed  to  put  a fresh  luster  in  Cyril’s  eyes,  and  add  to 
the  wine-like  sparkle  of  his  conversation.  In  proportion  as  his  spir- 
its fell  at  one  time,  they  rose  at  another  by  virtue  of  his  sensitive, 
emotional  temperament ; while  Henry’s  steady,  sunny  cheerfulness 
went  on  deepening  more  slowly,  but  perhaps  more  surely,  and  at 
last  bubbled  over.  Presently  they  passed  a woman  toiling  up  a hill 
with  a baby  and  a basket,  of  both  which  burdens  Everard  relieved 
her,  to  her  unbounded  surprise,  coolly  handing  the  basket  to  Cyril, 
and  himself  bearing  the  baby,  which  he  tossed  till  it  crowed  with 
ecstasy.  Having  left  these  trifles  at  a roadside  cottage,  with  a shih 
ling  to  requite  the  woman  for  the  loan  of  her  infant,  they  reached 
Swaynestone  Park,  and  met  Ben  Lee,  who  was  crossing  the  road  on 
his  way  from  his  cottage  to  the  stables. 

Everard  greeted  him  with  a cordiality  to  which  Lee  replied 
gruffly,  and  with  an  evident  intention  of  hurrying  on. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


57 


“ Oh,  oome,  Lee,”  said  Everard,  “ you  are  not  so  busy  as  all  that ! 
How  are  they  all  up  at  the  Temple?  Alma’s  roses  in  full  bloom,  I 
hope  ? And  my  patient,  Mrs.  Lee,  has  she  quite  got  over  the  acci- 
dent? I shall  be  looking  in  very  soon.” 

“You  may  save  yourself  the  trouble.  Dr.  Everard,”  returned 
Lee,  in  a surly  manner;  “thank  ’ee  kindly  all  the  same.  But  I 
want  no  more  gentlefolk  up  at  my  house.  I’ve  had  enough  of  they. 
Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Cyril ; glad  to  see  you  home,  sir  ” ; and,  touch- 
ing his  hat,  he  passed  quickly  on,  leaving  Everard  in  a state  of 
stupefaction  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

“ What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  Lee  ? ” he  exclaimed. 
“ Surely  he  can’t  be  drunk,  Cyril ! ” 

All  the  light  had  faded  from  Cyril’s  radiant  face.  The  moment 
he  caught  sight  of  the  coachman,  he  made  the  old  movement  of 
pressing  his  hand  to  his  side  in  a spasm  of  pain,  and  he  seemed  al- 
most as  impatient  of  delay  as  Lee  himself. 

“I  never  heard  of  his  drinking,”  he  replied,  evasively.  “Per- 
haps things  have  gone  wrong  with  him.  Look  here,  Henry ! let  us 
cut  the  high-road,  and  get  home  across  country  ; we  shall  save  half 
a mile,  and  find  the  ladies  at  tea.” 

“What  sense  can  you  get  out  of  a fellow  in  love?  ” returned 
Everard,  leading  the  way  over  the  stile.  “For  him  mankind  dwin- 
dles down  to  a slim  puss  of  a girl,  with  dimples  and  a pair  of  brown 
eyes.  Go  on,  man ! ‘ Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may  ’ ; ” and, 

lilting  out  the  gay  old  ballad  with  all  the  strength  of  his  honest 
lungs,  Everard  resumed  his  light-hearted  manner,  and  did  not  ob- 
serve that  Cyril’s  gayety  had  become  forced  and  spasmodic. 

A ruddy  glow  above  the  wooded  crests  of  bTorthover  was  all 
that  remained  of  day  when  they  entered  the  Bectory  grounds  by 
the  churchyard  path,  and  found  Lilian,  with  the  cat  gravely  coiled 
at  her  feet  at  the  hall  door,  darkly  outlined  against  the  faint,  crim- 
son light  of  the  hall  stove. 

“Your  instinct  is  infallible,  Lilian,”  said  Cyril,  embracing  her ; 
“for  you  were  not  even  sure  that  I was  coming  to-night.  Dear 
Lilian,  it  is  nice  to  see  you  again ! ” 

“ I am  glad  not  to  be  wholly  eclipsed  by  the  new  star,”  she  re- 
plied, laughing,  yet  scanning  his  face  with  some  anxiety,  while  she 
continued  to  hold  his  hand.  Then  she  turned  to  Henry,  over  whoso 
spirits  an  unaccountable  damp  had  descended,  and  offered  him  her 
hand ; while  Cyril  stooped  to  stroke  Mark  Antony,  who  was  trb 


68 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


umphantly  rubbing  himself  round  and  round  his  legs  with  loud 
purrs  and  exultant  tail.  “ I am  so  glad  you  have  brought  him, 
Henry,”  she  said ; adding,  in  a lower  voice,  He  is  looking  horribly 
ill.” 

By  this  time  Mr.  Maitland,  the  children,  the  dogs,  and  all  the 
servants  were  in  the  hall,  greeting  Cyril  with  such  enthusiasm  that 
Henry  remained  for  some  moments  unnoticed  by  Lilian’s  side. 

‘‘You  all  seem  extremely  glad  to  see  Cyril^''''  he  observed  to  her, 
with  rueful  emphasis. 

“ Hear  Henry,  I know  we  are  horribly  rude  to  our  guests  when 
we  have  Cyril  to  spoil,”  she  replied,  laying  her  hand  gently  on  his 
arm. 

He  took  the  hand  in  his  and  pressed  it  warmly  to  his  side,  and 
felt  that  the  rainbow  radiance  had  suddenly  returned  to  his  universe. 
But  the  bright  moment  was  very  brief,  for  it  was  now  his  turn  to 
be  welcomed,  and  by  the  time  he  was  free  to  go  into  the  drawing- 
room, Lilian  was  not  to  be  seen. 

“ But  where  is  Marion?  ” asked  Cyril,  looking  round  the  draw- 
ing-room, after  he  had  duly  saluted  his  mother,  who  was,  as  usual, 
on  her  couch. 

“ I think  you  will  find  her  in  my  room,”  replied  Lilian,  as  in- 
difierently  as  if  she  had  not  specially  arranged  for  the  lovers  to  meet 
there.  ‘‘We  dine  punctually  at  half-past  seven.  ITo,  Henry,  you 
foolish  fellow,  you  are  to  stay  here,”  she  added,  as  Cyril  left  the 
room,  and  Henry  attempted  to  follow  him. 

“ A brother,  I suppose,  is  of  no  account  in  these  days,”  grumbled 
Everard,  seating  himself  by  Mrs.  Maitland's  couch  with  a contented 
air,  nevertheless.  “ All  this  courtship  is  sickening  to  me,  Mrs. 
Maitland.  As  for  that  hopeful  son  of  yours,  not  one  word  of  sense 
have  I got  out  of  him  this  day,  or  do  I expect  to  get  for  the  next 
two  months.  Thank  goodness,  it  must  come  to  an  end  then,  and 
they  will  settle  down  to  a life’s  squabbling  like  sane  people.” 

“ Ah,  young  people ! young  people ! ” said  Mr.  Maitland,  looking 
very  happy  about  it.  “We  must  not  be  hard  upon  them,  Henry. 
We  all  go  mad  once — Lennie  will  turn  that  back  into  Latin  for  you, 
eh  ? — But  we  consider  Cyril  and  Marion  a very  sensible  young 
couple,  don’t  we,  N’ellie  ? ” 

“I  think,”  replied  Mrs.  Maitland,  laughing,  “that  we  consider 
everything  that  Cyril  does  sensible.  When  his  biography  is  written, 
it  will  be  said  that  his  family  did,  to  a certain  extent,  appreciate  him.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


59 


Whereupon  the  conversation  turned  upon  Cyril  and  his  doings 
and  his  prospects,  and  their  anxiety  about  him,  and  suddenly  the 
thought  struck  chill  to  Everard’s  marrow : What  would  happen, 
in  case  of  Cyril’s  failure,  death,  or  otljer  misadventure,  to  tlie  inno- 
cent family  circle  of  which  he  was  the  central  hope  ? 

The  curtains  were  drawn  snugly  against  the  frosty  cold  without, 
Eliza,  all  smiles  and  fresh  cap-ribbons,  brought  a lamp  and  tea; 
and  Everard  wondered  if  Heaven  could  possibly  be  an  improvement 
on  the  present.  No  one  ever  made  or  poured  out  tea  like  Lilian,  he 
thought ; no  tea  ever  had  so  divine  an  effect  on  the  nervous  system 
as  hers.  For  weeks  he  had  dreamed  of  sitting  thus  by  the  drawing- 
room fire,  his  whole  being  pervadbd  by  the  delicious  fact  of  her 
presence,  and  now  he  found  the  reality  sweeter  than  the  dream. 

Not  for  weeks  only,  but  for  years  afterward,  did  the  memory  of 
that  fireside  scene  shine  warmly  on  the  darkness  of  his  life.  The 
lamplight  was  so  soft  that  the  fire,  on  which  Lennie  had  thrown 
some  fir-cones,  disputed  for  mastery  with  it,  and  added  to  the  cheery 
radiance  of  the  pretty  drawing-room.  On  one  side  of  the  fire  Mrs. 
Maitland,  still  beautiful,  though  faded,  and  excpiisitely  dressed,  lay 
on  her  couch  amid  becomingly  arranged  furs  and  shawls;  Henry 
sat  by  her  on  a low  seat,  and  rendered  her  various  little  filial  atten- 
tions ; Mr.  Maitland  sat  facing  the  fire,  with  its  light  playing  on  his 
silvery  hair  and  clean-cut  features,  the  prototype  of  Cyril’s. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hearth  sat  Lilian,  with  the  tea-table  at 
her  side ; Winnie  was  on  a stool  at  her  feet,  her  head  pressed  to 
her  sister’s  knee,  on  which  reposed,  in  careless  majesty,  Mark  An- 
tony, gracefully  toying  with  the  golden  curls  tossed  in  pretty  negli- 
gence within  reach  of  his  paws.  The  warm  rug  before  the  fire 
was  occupied  by  the  terrier  and  the  pug,  the  children’s  tea-cups, 
and  the  recumbent  full-length  of  Lennie,  who  sprang  to  his  feet 
from  time  to  time  to  pass  people’s  cups. 

Lilian  spoke  little.  She  and  Henry  did  not  address  each  other 
once ; but  his  eye  never  lost  the  picture  ori  the  opposite  side  of  the 
fire,  which  reminded  him  of  Baffaelle’s  Virgin  of  the  Cardellino. 
It  was  not  that  Lilian’s  intelligent  face  in  the  least  resembled  that 
harmless,  faultlessly  featured  Madonna’s,  though  her  deep  gray  eyes 
were  bent  down  much  in  the  same  way  on  the  child-face  and  sportive 
animal  on  her  knee  as  the  Virgin’s  in  the  picture.  It  was  the  look 
of  divine,  innocent,  ineffable  content  that  she  wore.  And  yet 
Everard  did  not  appear  to  be  looking  at  this  charming  picture, 


60 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


though  Lilian  knew  that  he  saw  it,  and  was  equally  conscious  of 
the  picture  he  made,  his  broad  shoulders  and  athletic  limbs  afford- 
ing a fine  contrast  to  her  mother’s  fragile,  faded  grace. 

‘‘And  what  are  your  plans,  Henry?  ” asked  Mr.  Maitland  at  last, 
when  Cyril’s  affairs  had  been  discussed  over  and  over  again. 

“I  think  of  buying  a good  practice  near  Southampton,  and  set- 
tling down  as  a country  doctor,”  he  replied.  “I  have  enough 
property  to  make  me  fairly  independent,  and  shall  be  able  to  carry 
on  my  scientific  pursuits  without  fear  of  starvation.” 

“ And  the  next  step,  I suppose,  will  be  to  take  a wife  ? ” 

“The  very  next  step,”  replied  Everard,  looking  thoughtfully 
into  the  glowing  heart  of  the  fire. 

Lilian  bent  her  head  a little,  and  caught  away  a curl  at  which 
Mark  Antony  was  snatching.  “ If  no  one  is  going  to  have  any 
more  tea,  pussy  shall  have  the  rest  of  the  cream,”  she  said. 

Cyril,  in  the  mean  time,  quickly  found  his  way  to  the  well- 
known  room  called  Lilian’s,  where  Marion  was  sitting,  in  the  dusk, 
alone,  but  acutely  conscious  of  the  light,  swift  steps  along  the  cor- 
ridor which  bore  her  expected  lover  to  her  side.  They  met  in 
silence,  each  young  heart  being  too  full  for  speech ; and  it  was  not 
until  Cyril  had  released  Marion  from  his  embrace,  and  placed  her  in 
a chair  by  the  fireside,  that  he  said,  kneeling  on  the  rug  near  her : 

“Am  I indeed  quite  forgiven,  Marion?  ” 

“You  foolish  fellow!  How  many  times  have  I written  that 
word  ? ” she  replied,  laughing. 

“Written,  yes;  but  I want  to  hear  it  from  your  own  lips — I 
W’ant  to  be  quite  sure,”  he  continued,  with  unabated  earnestness, 
the  blue  fire  of  his  eyes  bent  upon  her  soft  brown  gaze,  while  he 
held  both  her  hands  pressed  against  his  breast. 

“ Dear  Cyril,  you  make  too  much  of  what  is  better  forgotten,” 
she  said.  “We  quarreled  long  ago  and  made  it  up  long  ago,  though 
we  have  not  met  since.” 

“Forgotten?  Oh,  Marion,  do  you  think  I can  ever  forget? 
And  though  you  forgive  me,  do  you  think  I can  ever  forgive  my- 
self?” 

“ Certainly.  Don’t  lovers  always  quarrel ; and  are  they  not 
better  friends  afterward  ? And  don’t  you  mean  to  forgive  poor 
me?  I have  forgiven  us  both;  though,  indeed,  those  few  months 
were  very  dreadful.” 

“ Dreadful ! They  were  more  than  dreadful  to  me.  Oh,  Marion, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


if  you  kuew,  if  you  only  dreamed,  how  unworthy  I am,  you  who 
are  so  white,  so  stainless!  You  can  never  guess.  Sometimes  I 
wonder  that  I ever  dare  hope  to  call  you  mine,  so  black  am  I in 
comparison  with  you.” 

“Cyril,  this  is  lover’s  talk — exaggeration.  It  makes  me  feel 
ashamed,”  she  replied,  soft  blushes  stealing  over  her  gentle  face  in 
the  firelight;  “it  makes  me  remember  that  I am  but  a weak,  fool- 
ish girl,  and  greatly  need  the  guidance  of  a strong,  good  man  liko 
you.”  ^ 

“ Good  ! God  help  me  1 ” he  exclaimed,  turning  his  face  from 
the  modest  glance  that  seemed  to  scorch  his  very  soul.  “Marion, 
I am  not  good ; there  is  no  weaker  man  than  I on  God’s  earth,  and 
without  you  I think  I should  be  utterly  lost.  Do  you  know — no, 
you  never  can  know — what  it  is  to  be  able  to  love  a good  woman; 
to  feel  the  vileness  die  out  of  one  at  the  very  thought  of  her ; to  he 
strengthened  and  purified  by  the  very  atmosphere  she  breathes  ; — 
to  feel  at  the  thought  of  losing  her — Marion,  dear  Marion,  I think 
sometimes  if  you  knew  the  darkness  that  was  upon  my  soul  during 
those  wretched  months  when  we  were  parted,  I fear — oh,  I fear 
that  you  would  cast  me  off  with  loathing  and  scorn — ” 

Marion  smiled  a gentle  smile,  only  dimly  seeing  the  passionate 
agony  in  Cyril’s  shadowed  face.  “I  know  that  I could  never  scorn 
you^^"'  she  interrupted,  with  tender  emphasis. 

Cyril  bent  his  head  over  her  hands  in  silence  for  a few  seconds; 
and  then,  looking  up  again,  said  in  a more  collected  manner,  “ Mari- 
on, will  you  take  me,  worthless  as  I am,  and  bear  with  me  and  cleave 
to  me  through  good  and  evil  report,  and  help  me,  in  spite  of  the 
past,  to  be  a better  man  ? ” 

“ Dear,”  she  replied  gently,  “ I have  taken  you  for  better  and 
for  worse.  I don’t  expect  you  to  be  faultless,  though  I do  admire 
and  honor  you  above  all  men,  I should  be  sorry  if  you  were  fault- 
less, because,  you  know,  I am  not  faultless  myself;  I am  not  like 
Lilian,  even.  We  shall  help  each  other  to  be  wiser  and  better,  I 
hope.” 

Cyril  bad  averted  his  face  from  the  innocent,  loving  gaze  he 
could  not  endure,  but  he  turned  once  more  and  looked  into  Marion’s 
charming  face,  which  was  radiant  in  a sudden  burst  of  firelight, 
while  his  own  remained  in  darker  shadow  than  ever.  “Promise 
once  more,”  he  said,  in  low,  impassioned  tones,  “ that,  you  will  never 
leave  me,” 


62 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


Marion  suffered  herself  to  glide  into  the  embrace  before  her,  and 
repeated  the  promise,  half  laughing  to  herself  at  the  foolish  impor- 
tance assigned  to  trifles  by  lovers,  and  half  believing  in  the  intensity 
of  the  oft-repeated  assurances,  and  was  very  happy  until  a discreet 
clatter  of  silver  and  china  was  heard  outside,  followed  by  a knock 
at  the  door,  and,  after  an  interval,  the  entrance  of  Eliza,  who  was 
edified  to  find  Marion  at  one  end  of  the  room,  adjusting  some  china 
on  a bracket,  and  Cyril  at  the  other,  gazing  out  of  the  window  with 
great  interest  at  the  frosty  stars.  ^ 

When  the  candles  were  lighted,  the  curtains  drawn,  and  the  tea 
poured  out,  all  traces  of  his  passionate  agitation  had  left  Cyril’s 
beautiful,  severely  cut  features,  and  he  sat  by  Marion’s  side,  teacup 
in  hand,  quiet  and  content,  the  very  picture  of  the  ideal  curate  of 
commonplace  just  dropped  in  to  tea. 

Marion  now  saw  him  clearly,  and  was  distressed  at  his  wan  and 
worn  appearance,  and  also  at  a certain  look  he  never  had  before 
the  fatal  winter  she  passed  in  the  Mediterranean  with  her  brother. 
Since  then  she  had  met  him  face  to  face  but  once,  on  the  day  when 
he  came  to  ask  forgiveness  and  renew  the  engagement,  and  then, 
naturally,  lie  did  not  look  like  his  old  self.  Was  it  only  toil  which 
had  robbed  Cyril  of  the  bloom  of  his  youth  ? she  wondered ; and 
she  sighed.  “It  was  time  you  had  a holiday,  I think,”  she  said 
softly.  “You  must  not  be  such  an  ascetic  any  more;  you  do  not 
belong  to  a celibate  priesthood,  remember.” 

“ This  is  not  exactly  the  cell  of  an  anchorite,”  replied  Cyril,  with 
the  smile  which  won  so  many  hearts,  as  he  rested  his  head  comfort- 
ably on  the  back  of  his  low  chair,  and  gazed  upon  Marion’s  slender 
grace.  “Mayn’t  I have  another  lump  of  sugar,  Marion?  Lilian 
and  I have  expended  much  thought  on  the  decoration  of  this 
room.” 

“ And  taste,”  said  Marion,  looking  round  upon  the  pictures  and 
bric-orbrac  and  various  evidences  of  cultured  taste,  though  it  is  not 
to  be  supposed  that  the  two  lovers  were  there  to  discuss  nothing 
but  the  decoration  of  Lilian’s  room. 

Cyril  had  spoken  hotly  of  his  dislike  to  Marion’s  Mediterranean 
tour ; and  Marion’s  pride  had  been  touched  till  she  reminded  him 
that  she  was  entirely  her  own  mistress,  and  might  probably  continue 
so  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  Then  ensued  a quarrel,  only  half  seri- 
ous on  either  sifle,  a quarrel  that  a word  or  a look  would  have 
righted  in  a moment.  But,  unfortunately,  Marion  had  to  join  her 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


63 


friends,  the  Wilmots,  sooner  than  she  anticipated,  and  thus  hurried 
off  before  she  could  say  good-by  to  Cyril,  and  make  tilings  straight 
with  one  little  smile. 

The  game  of  quarreling,  when  carried  on  between  two  young, 
ardent  lovers,  is  a very  pretty  diversion,  but  can  not  possibly  be 
played  at  a distance,  as  these  two  found  to  their  cost.  Deprived  of 
the  fairy  artillery  of  glances,  sighs,  voices,  and  gestures,  and  con- 
fined to  the  heavy  ordnance  of  letters,  they  could  not  bring  things 
to  a happy  conclusion.  Letters  were  first  hot,  then  cold,  then  rare, 
then  non-existent,  until  one  day  Cyril  wrote,  after  long  silence,  to 
ask  Marion  how  long  she  meant  to  play  with  his  afifections.  Marion 
replied  that  if  Cyril  considered  their  engagement  as  a mere  pastime, 
the  sooner  it  was  broken  off  the  better.  Cyril  wrote  back  to 
release  her  from  an  engagement  which  he  said  he  perceived  had 
become  distasteful  to  her. 

This  was  in  March.  At  Whitsuntide,  Everard  spent  some  time 
at  Malbourne,  whence  Cyril  went  to  Bclminster  for  ordination  at 
Trinity.  He  thought  Cyril  unhappy,  and  after  the  ordination  he 
asked  him,  subsequently  to  some  conversation  with  Lilian  on  the 
subject,  if  he  still  cared  for  Marion,  to  which  Cyril  replied  in  the 
affirmative.  Then  Henry  told  him  that  Marion  was  pining  and 
showing  tendencies  to  consumption.  She  was  the  kind  of  woman, 
he  said,  whose  health  is  perfect  in  happiness,  but  who  breaks  down 
the  moment  that  elixir  of  life  is  denied.  He  thought  that  she  loved 
Cyril  still. 

Thus  emboldened,  Cyril  owned  himself  in  the  wrong,  and  sued 
for  a return  to  favor.  He  could,  however,  only  afford  one  brief 
interview  with  Marion,  since  he  had  with  some  difficulty  freed  him- 
self from  the  curacy  at  Shotover,  which  had  given  him  a title  to 
deacon’s  orders,  and  got  himself  placed  on  a mission  staff  in  the 
East  of  London,  where  he  led  a semi-monastic  life  in  a house  with 
his  fellow-curates,  and  enjoyed  to  the  full  the  hard  labor  for  which 
he  had  clamored  so  eagerly  while  at  Shotover. 

The  situation  was  eminently  unfavorable  to  courtship,  while  it 
seemed  to  render  marriage  absolutely  impracticable.  Cyril,  how- 
ever, found  a means  of  reconciling  duty  with  inclination,  and  easily 
convinced  his  rector  that  his  labors  would  be  equally  valuable  if  he 
had  a home  of  his  own  within  easy  reach  of  the  scene  of  his  toils, 
and  thus  they  were  to  be  married  in  the  spring.  The  narrow 
means  which  so  frequently  darken  the  horizon  of  curates’  love- 
5 


64: 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND. 


dreams  had  no  place  in  this  romance,  since  both  Cyril  and  Marion 
tiad  wherewithal  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door. 

But  they  are  together  at  last,  and  the  dark  days  which  divided 
them  are  to  be  forgotten. 

“When  I hear  the  word  ‘misery,’  I think  of  last  spring,”  said 
Marion,  laughing, 

Cyril’s  face  clouded,  and  he  turned  away  and  gazed  at  the  fire. 
“ IN^ever  think  of  it ! ” he  exclaimed,  suddenly  turning  a bright, 
animated  gaze  upon  Marion.  “I  shall  drive  it  from  your  memory, 
dear,  by  every  act  and  thought  of  my  life.” 

Dinner,  the  hour  so  fondly  welcomed  by  mortals  in  general, 
came  all  too  soon  for  these ; and,  indeed,  it  was  not  till  the  others 
had  taken  their  places  at  the  table  that  Marion  made  her  appear- 
ance, flushed  and  charming,  and  met  her  brother  for  the  first  time 
since  his  arrival  in  the  house. 

“This  is  an  improvement,”  he  said,  holding  her  at  arm’s  length 
to  look  at  her,  ‘‘  on  the  mealy-faced  girl  I saw  three  months  ago. 
Pray,  miss,  where  do  you  get  your  rouge  ? ” 

“Manufactured  on  the  estate,  Henry,”  replied  Mr.  Maitland. 
“Native  Malbourne  rouge.  Let  us  hope  Cyril  may  acquire  some 
of  it.” 

“ It  comes  oflT  easily,”  said  Everard,  gravely,  while  Cyril  became 
absorbed  in  Mark  Antony,  who  sat  on  a stool  at  Lilian’s  side  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  with  his  chin  on  a level  with  the  cloth,  and  who 
was  so  enchanted  to  find  himself  with  a twin  on  each  side  of  him, 
that  his  deep  mellifluous  purrs  threatened  to  drown  the  conversa- 
tion. 

“You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  Granfer  is  still  alive  and  well, 
and  wiser  than  ever,  Henry,”  said  Mrs.  Maitland,  who  was  sitting 
on  his  right,  having,  as  usual,  resigned  the  head  of  the  table  to 
Lilian. 

“ I congratulate  Malbourne,  Mrs.  Maitland.  It  could  never  go 
on  without  Granfer’s  advice.  And  the  discontented  Baines  has  not 
yet  blown  you  all  up?  And  friend  Wax  still  wields  the  ferule  in 
defiance  of  Lilian  ? ” 

“ But  not  in  church,”  said  Lilian. 

“Because  Lilian  steals  the  cane  if  he  brings  it,”  added  Ma- 
rion. 

“And  is  anybody  engaged,  or  born,  or  dead?”  continued 
Everard,  gayly.  “ By  the  way,  what  has  happened  to  Ben  Lee? 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


65 


It  struck  me  that  he  had  been  drinking  this  afternoon.  And  our 
friend  Alma,  how  is  she?  ” 

There  was  a dead  silence  for  a second  or  two,  and  Everard’s 
eager  gaze  of  inquiry  met  no  response  from  the  eyes  bent  resolutely 
on  th^  plates. 

“Let  me  send  you  some  more  beef,  Henry,”  said  Mr.  Maitland, 
looking  up  from  his  joint  with  sudden  briskness.  “ Come,  where 
is  your  boasted  appetite  ? Yes,  bring  Dr.  Everard’s  plate, 
Eliza.” 

“But  Alma?  Oh,  I hope  there  is  nothing  wrong  with  her?” 
continued  Everard,  looking  round  with  a dismayed  gaze,  while 
Mrs.  Maitland  laid  her  hand  warningly  on  his  sleeve.  “ Oh,  Lilian, 
Alma  is  not  dead  ? ” 

“ Worse,”  replied  Lilian,  in  a low  voice — “far  worse.” 

There  were  tears,  he  saw,  trembling  upon  her  eyelashes ; and  if 
ever  tears  resembled  pearls,  then,  he  thought,  did  those  precious 
drops,  and  if  ever  mortal  woman  was  dear,  then  was  Lilian.  He 
saw  it  all  now  on  the  instant,  and  he  remembered  how  much  Lilian 
had  done  for  Alma,  and  how  at  Whitsuntide  she  had  spoken  of  her 
and  cared  about  her  absence  from  the  Sacrament,  and  so  dismayed 
was  he  by  this  catastrophe  that,  having  none  of  the  ready  resources 
and  fine  tact  which  insure  social  success,  he  sim^fiy,  like  the  honest, 
clumsy  fellow  he  was,  dropped  his  knife  and  fork,  and  gazed  horror- 
struck  before  him.  Fortunately,  at  that  moment  Lennie,  who  was 
stretched  on  the  hearth-rug,  intent  upon  “Ivanhoe,”  bethought  him- 
self of  an  important  event,  and  took  advantage  of  the  silence  to 
proclaim  it. 

“I  say,  Henry,”  he  exclaimed,  “ what  do  you  think?  I’m  going 
into  trousers  to-morrow.” 

“ Why,  it  was  all  over  Oldport,”  said  Cyril.  “ Bills  in  every 
window.  ‘Oh  yes!  oh  yes!  oh  yes!  Know  all  by  these  presents 
that  Lennie  Maitland  goes  into  trousers  to-morrow.’  ” 

“Oh,  won’t  I smack  you  by-and-by!”  observed  Lennie,  tran- 
quilly returning  to  the  gests  of  Brian  de  Bois-Guilbert. 

“ I think,  Cyril,  you  scarcely  appreciate  the  honor  your  brother 
intends  you,”  said  Mr.  Maitland.  “ He  dons  these  virile  garments 
for  the  purpose  of  hearing  your  sermon.  He  evidently  holds 
trousers  to  be  conducive  to  a pious  frame  of  mind,  or  at  least  to  a 
certain  mental  receptivity  ; eh,  Lennie,  lad  ? ” 

“ The  unfortunate  tailor’s  life  has  been  a burden  to  him  in  the 


66 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


fear  that  the  suit  would  not  he  ready  in  time,”  said  Mrs.  Mait- 
land. 

“In  time  to  hear  Cywil  pweach,”  added  Marion,  laugh- 
ing. 

“ How  many  times  have  they  been  tried  on,  Lennie  ? ” asked 
Lilian. 

“Never  you  mind  their  rubbish,”  said  Everard;  “ask*  Miss 
Mawion  how  often  she  calls  me  Henwy  ? ” 

“And  Cywil  will  line  the  pockets  with  silver  for  you,”  added 
Cyril,  who  was  looking  very  happy,  having,  as  Eliza  observed 
with  satisfaction,  his  hand  locked  in  Marion’s  under  the  table- 
cloth. 

No  sooner  had  the  ladies  withdrawn,  than  Everard  burst  out, 
“And  who  is  the  scoundrel ? ” 

“ Softly,  softly,  Henry!  beware  of  rash  judgments,”  returned 
Mr.  Maitland,  whose  face  took  a grieved  look.  “Nothing  is 
known,  which  is  hateful  to  me  because  of  the  great  wave  of 
scandal  and  the  dreadful  scorching  of  tongues  which  arises  about 
the  matter.  Lee,  I know  not  why,  assumes  that  it  is  a gentleman ; 
and  public  opinion,  and,  I fear  I must  add,  his  reputation,  point  to 
Ingram  Swaynestone.  Sir  Lionel  has  spoken  to  him,  but  he  abso- 
lutely denies  it ; and,  indeed — ” 

“ In  short,”  broke  in  Cyril,  who  was  extremely  busy  with  some 
walnuts  on  his  plate,  “ the  less  said  about  these  miserable  scandals 
the  better.” 

“ True,  quite  true,”  said  his  father,  with  a heavy  sigh. 

“ But  Alma!  the  little  girl  we  used  to  play  with  at  the  Temple, 
with  Lilian,  and  often  Ingram,  and  the  girl  Swaynestones ! ” cried 
Henry.  “I  can  not  believe  any  wrong  of  her.  She  has  been 
wronged — of  that  I am  sure.” 

“ Truly,  I had  never  dreamed  of  such  trouble  for  Alma,  poor 
child!  ” said  Mr.  Maitland.  “Elsewhere  in  the  parish,  of  course, 
one  dreads  such  things,  knowing  their  temptations.  It  is  a heavy 
grief  for  me,  Henry,  as  you  may  imagine.” 

“ And  for  Lilian,”  added  Everard.  “ Yes,  I know  how  you  love 
your  spiritual  children,  sir,  and  can  imagine  your  distress.  And 
poor  Lee,  he  was  so  proud  of  her.  He  is  sullen,  1 see ; a sure  sign 
of  grief.  Oh,  I hope  he  is  not  unkind  to  her  ! ” 

“ The  step-mother  is  hard,  and  has  a sharp  tongue  ! She  forgets 
what  poor  Alma  did  for  her  child.  Altogether,  it  is  a sad,  sad  his* 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


67 


tory.  The  Temple,  I suppose,  holds  more  unhappiness  than  any 
house  in  the  country.” 

“ Oh,  really,  my  dear  father,”  exclaimed  Cyril,  who  seemed 
pained  beyond  endurance,  “you  must  not  take  it  so  to  heart ! She 
is  not  the  first — ” 

“ By  Jove,  Maitland ! ” interrupted  Everard,  “ you  are  the  last 
man  from  whom  I should  expect  an  echo  of  Mephistopheles.  He 
never  said  anything  more  diabolical  than  that — ‘ Sie  ist  die  Erste 
nicht.’  ” 

Cyril  colored  so  hotly  that  he  exhibited  the  phenomenon  of  a 
black  blush,  while  Mr.  Maitland  hastened  to  say  that  Cyril  was  in  a 
different  position  from  Faust,  who  had  wrought  the  wrong  “ And 
then,”  he  added,  “ Cyril  is  doubtless  weary  of  sin  and  sorrow,  of 
which,  in  his  parish,  he  must  have  far  more  than  we  in  our  simple 
rustic  home  have  any  idea  of,  busy  as  Satan  undoubtedly  is  every- 
where.” 

“ Quite  so,”  returned  Cyril,  wearily.  “ My  words  sounded  un- 
fortunately, Everard ; but,  as  my  father  suggests,  when  one  has 
breakfasted  and  lunched  for  weeks  upon  peccant  parishioner,  one 
does  not  enjoy  the  same  dish  at  dinner.” 

Everard’s  rejoinder  was  prevented  by  the  intrusion  of  a sunny 
head  at  the  door,  and  the  clear  voice  of  Winnie  was  heard  crying, 
“ Do  make  haste ! Me  and  Lennie  want  to  know  what  is  in  that 
basket,  and  Lilian  won’t  let  us.”  Whereupon  Cyril  sprang  up  and 
chased  the  delighted  child  through  tlie  hall  and  into  the  drawing- 
room, where  she  took  refuge,  screaming,  in  Lilian’s  dress. 

The  basket  which  so  stimulated  the  children’s  curiosity  was  well 
known  to  contain  the  young  men’s  Christmas  gifts  to  the  family,  and 
was  forthwith  uncovered  amid  a scene  of  joyous  turbulence,  and 
had  its  contents  distributed. 

The  task  of  collecting  the  parcels  in  the  basket  and  conveying 
them  to  the  drawing-room  had  been  performed  by  Eliza  with  thrills 
of  delicious  agony,  for  it  was  almost  beyond  human  nature  not  to 
take  at  least  one  peep  at  a packet  containing  the  very  ribbon  she 
longed  for,  and  at  another  revealing  glimpses  of  a perfect  love  of  a 
shawl,  which  proved  to  be  destined  for  cook.  However,  she  ap- 
peared with  a perfectly  demure  countenance  when  fetched  by  Len- 
nie, with  the  other  maids,  to  receive  her  presents.  By  that  time 
Mr.  Maitland  had  become  lost  to  all  earthly  cares,  in  an  arm-chair, 
with  an  old  battered  volume  Everard  had  picked  up  at  a book-stall 


68 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


in  Paris  for  him ! Winnie  was  wondering  if  some  fairy  had  informed 
Henry  that  a fishing-rod  of  her  very  own  had  been  her  soul’s  unat^ 
tainable  star  for  months ; and  Lennie  was  dancing  round  the  room 
with  an  illustrated  ‘‘  Don  Quixote  ” clasped  in  his  arms. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  Cyril  making  his  gifts.  Each  was  offered 
with  a suitable  word,  tender  or  droll,  according  to  the  recipient, 
and  with  the  grace  that  an  emperor  might  have  envied,  though  a 
carping  observer  would  have  detected  that  the  gifts  themselves  had 
been  purchased  as  nearly  as  possible  at  the  same  shop.  As  for 
Everard,  he  made  his  offerings  with  a sneaking  air,  and  seemed 
glad  to  get  them  off  his  hands.  He  threw  the  ‘‘  Don  Quixote  ” at 
Lennie,  with  “ Here,  you  scamp ! ” and  placed  the  invalid  reading- 
stand  by  Mrs.  Maitland,  with  an  awkward,.  “ I don’t  ’ know  if  this 
thing  will  be  any  good  to  you.” 

‘‘  Why,  Henry,  who  told  you  that  father’s  life  has  been  a burden 
to  him  for  months  for  want  of  that  old  edition?  ” asked  Lilian. 

‘‘He  is  a wizard;  he  should  be  burned,”  laugjied  Cyril,  reflect- 
ing inwardly  that  while  his  gifts  cost  money,  Everard’s  cost  time 
and  thought  and  infinite  trouble  in  hunting  out. 

“But  ain’t  Lilian  to  have  anything ?”  inquired  the  ingenuous 
Lennie  ; for  Lilian  and  Cyril  never  gave  each  other  presents — they 
had  things  so  much  in  common,  and  Everard  appeared  to  have  for- 
gotten her. 

Lilian  appealed,  as  usual,  to  Mark  Antony  for  sympathy,  and 
Everard  grew  very  hot,  while  Cyril  absorbed  himself  in  fitting  the 
bracelet  he  had  given  Marion  upon  her  slender  arm.  Then  Lilian 
looked  up. 

“ It  was  horrid  of  you  to  forget  me,  Henry,”  she  said. 

“I  didn’t  forget  you,”  stammered  Everard;  “but  the  thing  was 
so  trifling  I hadn’t  the  courage — IPs  only  a photograph  of  the 
picture  which  inspired  Browning’s  ‘ Guardian  Angel.’  Here  it  is, 
if  you  think  it  worth  having.  You  said  you  would  give  anything 
to  see  Guercino’s  picture  at  Fano.” 

“ O Henry,  how  very  kind  and  thoughtful  of  you!  ” exclaimed 
Lilian,  her  face  transfigured  with  pleasure.  “ But  I thought  there 
was  no  photograph  ? ” 

“Well,  no;  but  young  Stobart  was  doing  Italy  in  the  autumn, 
and  I got  him  to  go  to  Fano  with  his  camera.  It  wasn’t  far  out  of 
his  way,”  he  replied,  in  a tone  of  apology. 

' Lennie’s  solicitude  being  relieved,  he  and  the  others  were  ab« 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


69 


sorbed  each  after  his  own  fashion ; no  one  observed  these  two. 
Lilian  looked  up  at  Henry,  who  had  thrown  himself  into  a low 
chair  by  her  side,  so  that  their  faces  were  on  a level.  Her  eyes 
were  dewy  and  bright ; they  gazed  straight  into  his  for  a minute, 
and  then  fell.  “You  had  it  done  for  me,”  she  murmured. 

It  was  the  crowning  moment  of  Everard’s  happy  night.  He 
bent  over  the  spirit-like  hand  resting  on  the  cat,  and  unseen  pressed 
his  lips  to  it.  He  knew  that  Lilian  loved  him,  and  knew  that  he 
loved  her.  He  said  nothing  more ; it  was  enough  bliss  for  one  day. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Before  going  to  rest  that  night,  Mr.  Maitland  led  Everard  to 
his  study,  and  there  subjected  him  to  a searching  cross-examination 
on  the  subject  of  Cyril’s  care-worn  and  unhealthy  appearance, 
which  Everard  referred  to  his  overzeal  in  his  labors,  and  the  exces- 
sive austerities  which  he  practiced. 

“ It  would  be  all  very  well  for  him  to  mortify  his  flesh  if  he  had 
too  much  of  it  to  balance  his  spirit,”  Everard  observed  ; “ but,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  has  too  little.” 

“Cyril  is  sensitive,”  his  father  replied;  “his  nerves  are  too 
tensely  strung,  like  those  of  all  extremely  reflned  and  poetic  natures. 
We  thought,  Lilian  and  I,  that  it  was  the  estrangement  from  Marion 
which  was  preying  on  him.  It  was  that  which  caused  him  to  leave 
Shotover,  and  plunge  into  this  terrific  London  work — that  and,  of 
course,  higher  motives.” 

“Cyril,  though  healthy,  is  delicate,”  replied  Everard.  “He 
ought  never  to  fast;  he  can  not  bear  it,  especially  when  working. 
His  brain  will  give  way  under  such  discipline.  Observe  him  to- 
morrow when  he  preaches.  There  is  too  much  nervous  excite- 
ment.” 

The  next  morning  Cyril  did  not  appear  till  the  end  of  breakfast, 
and  then  took  nothing  but  a cup  of  cofiee. 

“ Really,  Cyril,  I did  think  Sunday  at  least  was  a feast-day ! ” 
cried  Everard,  pausing  in  his  own  manful  assault  on  a well-piled 
plate  of  beef. 

“But  Cyril  is  to  celebrate  to-day;  he  must  fast,”  Lilian  explained; 


70 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


and  then  Everard  observed  that  Mr.  Maitland’s  breakfast  consistrd 
of  nothing,  and  groaned  within  himself,  and  asked  his  friends  if 
they  considered  it  decorous  for  clergymen  to  faint  in  the  midst  of 
public  worship. 

‘‘  When  a man  has  to  work,  he  should  feed  himself  into  proper 
condition,”  he  said  to  unheeding  ears. 

After  breakfast,  the  Maitland  family  repaired  in  a body  to  the 
Sunday  school,  and  Everard  went  out  to  smoke  a pipe  alone,  and, 
the  frost  being  keen,  he  wore  an  overcoat,  finding  one  of  his  own 
in  the  hall.  He  had  some  difficulty  in  putting  it  on,  and  could  not 
by  any  means  induce  it  to  meet  across  the  chest.  This  gave  him 
great  satisfaction.  ‘‘It  can  not  be  that  my  Sunday-go-to-meeting 
clothes  take  up  so  much  room,”  he  mused.  “No  ; I am  increasing 
in  girth  round  the  chest.  Who  could  imagine  that  one  night’s  hap- 
piness and  country  air  would  produce  such  an  effect?  A new  sci- 
entific fact.” 

It  was  pleasant  on  the  lawn  in  the  frosty  Sunday  stillness.  The 
sunbeams  danced  on  the  evergreens  and  smiled  on  the  Shotover 
parklands ; a robin  sang  its  cheerfully  pathetic  song ; and  a flock 
of  rooks  uttered  their  breezy  caws  in  the  pale  blue  above  his  head. 
Everard  smoked  with  profound  enjoyment  ; he  thought  of  last 
night’s  enchantment,  and  the  promise  he  had  just  extracted  from 
Lilian  to  sit  with  him  in  the  Rectory  pew  instead  of  with  the  school- 
children.  His  hands  were  thrust  for  warmth  into  his  coat-pockets, 
and  in  one  of  them  he  felt  the  square  outline  of  a letter,  which  he 
drew  out,  wondering — since  his  habits  were  neat  and  methodical,  as 
became  a student  of  natural  science — how  he  came  to  leave  a letter 
there.  The  letter,  however,  had  no  envelope  and  no  address.  He 
opened  it,  and  found,  in  the  half-formed,  clear  writing  of  an  un- 
learned person,  probably  some  patient  in  humble  life,  the  follow- 
ing: 


“No,  I will  never,  never  marry  you.  What  good  could  that  do 
me,  now  you  do  not  love  me  no  more — me  that  loved  you  better 
than  Heaven  and  her  own  poor  soul?  Would  I like  to  see  you  mis- 
erable, and  spoil  your  prospex  ? To  marry  the  likes  of  me  would 
ruin  you,  and  how  could  that  make  me  happy?  Marry  her  ; it  is 
better  for  you.  I have  done  wrong  for  love  of  you,  and  God  will 
punish  me.  But  you  are  sorry,  and  will  be  forgiven.  Farewell  for 
ever.  Your  broken-hearted  A.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


71 


The  gracious  light  of  the  wintry  morning  seemed  to  fade  out  of 
the  pale  pure  sky ; there  was  no  more  delight  in  the  robin’s  song ; 
the  bright  crystals  of  the  hoar-frost  sparkled  in  vain  for  Everard. 
“Why,  why  are  there  such  things?”  he  murmured.  “Why  was 
Cyril’s  echo  of  Mephistopheles  so  much  more  poignant  in  its  cyni- 
cism because  of  its  truth  ? ” 

The  weak  suffering,  the  strong  going  scot-free ; Alcestis  plung- 
ing, love-radiant,  into  the  darkness  of  Hades,  while  Admetus  re- 
joices in  the  light  of  heaven  ; women  trusting,  and  men  deceiving — 
what  a world  ! All  the  confused  misery  of  the  painful  insoluble 
riddle  of  earth  seemed  to  awake  and  trouble  the  clear  happiness  of 
Everard’s  soul  at  the  story  told  in  the  poor  little  scrap  of  paper,  the 
more  pathetic  for  its  bad  spelling  and  artless  grammar.  And  how 
came  such  an  epistle  in  his  pocket  ? Doubtless  some  friend  had 
borrowed  his  coat ; some  heedless  rackety  medical  student,  per- 
chance, and  flavored  it  with  tobacco  and  correspondence.  “ Sie  ist 
die  Erste  nicht,”  the  rooks  seemed  to  say  in  their  pleasant,  fresh 
morning  caws. 

But  now  the  bells  came  chiming  slowly  on  the  clear  air,  those 
dear,  drowsy  three  strokes  which  awoke  in  his  heart  so  many  echoes 
of  home  and  boyhood  and  sweet  innocent  life  beneath  the  beloved 
root  where  Lilian  dwelt ; bells  calling  people  to  come  and  pray,  to 
think  of  God  and  heaven,  and  forsake  all  the  sin  and  sorrow  of  the 
troubled  earth — calling  people  to  hear  how  even  such  black  things 
as  the  letter  told  of  might  be  made  white  again  like  snow ; to  hear 
the  kind  fatherly  counsels  of  such  as  Mr.  Maitland  or  Cyril.  And 
his  heart  swelled  when  he  thought  that  Cyril  had  devoted  his  stain- 
less youth,  his  bright  promise,  and  his  splendid  gifts  to  a calling 
which,  however  vainly,  tried  to  stem  the  tide  of  all  this  mad,  sad 
evil,  and  lift  men  out  of  the  mire  of  earth’s  misery.  How  beautiful 
to  have  Cyril’s  faith,  and  the  power  of  thus  consecrating  himself! 
How  poor  in  comparison  his  own  career,  devoted  merely  to  the  heal- 
ing of  men’s  bodies,  to  the  satisfaction  of  noble  desire  for  knowledge, 
and  the  widening  the  horizon  of  men’s  thoughts ! 

Like  all  thinkers,  and  especially  those  whose  thoughts  dwell 
much  on  the  study  of  natural  facts,  Everard  had  many  doubts,  and 
often  feared  that  the  Christianity  so  dear  to  him  through  instinct, 
training,  and  association,  might  be,  after  all,  but  a fairy  dream. 
But  the  atmosphere  of  Malbourne,  and  more  especially  the  influence 
^f  Mr.  Maitland’s  genuine  and  practical  piety,  together  with  Cyril’s 


72 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


bright  enthusiasm,  quenched  these  doubts  as  nothing  else  could" 
and  now  the  village  bells  fell  like  balm  on  his  troubled  soul,  and  he 
responded  with  cheery  good  temper  to  Lennie,  who  came  bounding 
over  the  lawn  in  the  proud  consciousness  of  trousers,  crying 
Come  along,  Henry,  and  look  at  Lilian’s  donkey.” 

He  thrust  the  paper  in  his  pocket,  and,  taking  the  little  fellow’s 
hand,  trotted  olf  with  him  toward  Winnie,  who  was  approaching 
them  at  headlong  pace,  with  curls  streaming  in  the  wind,  and  soon 
seized  his  other  hand,  and  led  him  to  the  meadow,  where  he  beheld 
one  of  the  sorriest  beasts  he  had  ever  set  eyes  on,  cropping  the 
frosty  grass,  and  winking  lazily  in  the  sun. 

‘‘  What  can  Lilian  do  with  such  a creature?  ” he  asked. 

“Oh,  she  makes  it  happy,  like  all  her  things,”  replied  Lennie. 
“ Won’t  you  stare  when  you  see  her  three-legged  cat,  and  the  fox 
with  tlie  broken  leg  she  has  in  the  stable ! ” 

“She  likes  hurt  things,”  commented  Winnie,  while  Lennie 
related  how  Lilian  met  this  donkey  one  day  in  the  road  leading 
over  the  downs.  It  was  harnessed  to  a cart  laden  with  vegetables, 
and  had  fallen  between  the  shafts,  where  its  owner,  a brutal,  bad 
fellow,  well  known  in  Malbourne,  was  furiously  belaboring  it. 

“Didn’t  he  stare  when  Lilian  caught  him  by  the  collar  and 
pulled  him  off  the  donkey ! ” said  Lennie.  “ Then  he  fell  all  of  a 
tremble,  and  Lilian  told  him  he  would  be  sent  to  prison  or  fined. 
And  he  said  he  was  too  poor  to  buy  another  donkey,  and  couldn’t 
help  this  one  growing  old  and  weak.  So  Lilian  gave  him  ten  shil- 
lings for  it.” 

“Dear  Lilian!  ” Everard  said  to  himself,  as  he  looked  at  the 
wretched  beast  with  its  stiff  limbs  and  body  scarred  by  old  sores 
and  stripes.  “ Which  do  you  love  best,  Winnie,  Lilian,  or  Cyril  ? ” 
“ Cyril,”  replied  both  children,  unhesitatingly,  but  could  give  no 
reason  for  their  preference  until  Lennie,  after  long  cogitation,  said, 
“ He  does  make  a fellow  laugh  so.” 

Everard  smiled,  and  thought  of  Wordsworth’s  boy  with  his 
weathercock.  The  day  was  warmer  now,  and  bidding  Lennie  run 
indoors  with  his  great  coat,  he  set  off  to  church  with  the  children. 

It  was  a matter  of  time  for  a person  of  any  consideration  to  get 
through  Malbourne  churchyard,  for  there,  grouped  upon  either  side 
the  porch,  lounged  a little  crowd  of  Malbourne  worthies,  solemnly 
passing  the  churchgoers  in  review,  and  headed,  of  course,  by  Granfer 
in  a clean  white  smock-frock,  and  with  his  hale  old  many-colored 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


73 


visage  and  veined  hands  looking  purplish  in  the  frosty  air.  Torn 
Hale  was  there,  making  a bright  center  to  the  cool-toned  picture  in 
his  red  tunic  and  spotless,  well-brushed  clothes;  while  Jim,  with 
open  breast  and  sailor  garb,  lent  a bit  of  picturesque  thot  not  even 
the  Sunday  coats  of  Baine’s  manufacture  could  quite  subdue. 

Lennie  held  up  his  head,  and  felt  that  his  trousers  were  making 
a deep  impression  ; while  Everard  stopped  and  wished  a good  morn- 
ing to  them  all,  smock-frocks,  Sunday  coats,  and  uniforms,  and 
received  a little  dignified  patronage  from  Granfer,  who  had  always 
regarded  him  with  some  disparagement  as  being  neither  a Swayne- 
stone  nor  a Maitland,  but  a mere  appendage  to  the  latter  family,  a 
circumstance  which  helped  to  render  Granfer  the  delight  of  Ever- 
ard’s  life. 

The  present  moment  did  not  find  Granfer  conversational,  his 
mental  powers  being  concentrated  on  observing  the  animated 
scene  before  him.  There  was  Farmer  Long,  with  his  wife  and 
daughters  in  tbeir  warm  scarlets  and  purples,  to  scrutinize  as  they 
strolled  along  the  road  and  over  the  church-yard  path;  then  the 
more  distant  farmers  who  drove  up  to  the  lychgate  in  old-fashioned 
gigs,  and,  having  dropped  their  families,  hastened  to  the  Sun  to  put 
up  the  strong,  coarse-limbed  horses ; then  came  the  Garretts  from 
Northover,  new  people,  whom  Malbourne  regarded  as  mere  mush- 
room pretenders,  with  a mixture  of  scorn  and  envy.  They  came 
on  foot,  their  own  gates  being  but  a stone’s  throw  from  the  church, 
a handsome  family  of  sons  and  daughters,  coeval  with  the  Maitlands. 
To  them  Granfer’s  salutation  was  almost  infinitesimal  in  its  elabo- 
rate graduation.  Then,  blending  with  the  drowsy  chime  of  the  three 
bells,  arose  the  clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  roll  of  wheels,  and  the 
Swaynestone  landau,  with  its  splendid  high-stepping  horses,  swept 
easily  up  to  the  gate,  the  silver-mounted  harness,  the  silken  coats  of 
the  steeds,  the  panels,  and  the  revolving  wheel- spokes  flashing  in 
the  sun.  Granfer  did  not  know  it,  but  perhaps  he  dimly  felt  that 
the  splendor  of  this  apparition  somehow  enlarged  and  beautified  the 
dim,  narrow  horizon  of  his  life. 

Ben  Lee’s  very  livery,  not  to  speak  of  his  skillful  and  effective 
driving,  contributed  vaguely  to  Granfer’s  importance ; as  also  did 
the  courteous  elegance  and  finely  built  form  of  Sir  Lionel,  and  the 
manner  in  which,  the  footman  having  retired  at  a look,  he  handed 
out  Lady  Swaynestone  and  his  daughter  Ethel,  in  their  velvets  and 
furs.  But  Granfer  was  distressed  to  see  that  Ben  Lee  no  longer 


74 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


drove  up  with  his  former  dash,  and  turned  his  shining  steeds  in  the 
direction  of  the  Sun  with  no  more  consequence  than  if  he  had  been 
driving  a mere  brewer’s  dray.  ‘‘Ah,  Ben  ain’t  the  man  he  was!  ” 
he  muttered,  after  having  helped  Sir  Lionel  and  his  family  with  the 
sunshine  of  his  approbation  into  cliurch. 

Then  came  the  tripping,  whispering  procession  of  school-chil- 
dren, led  by  the  rector,  followed  by  Wax,  who  was  involved  in  the 
double  misery  of  new  Sunday  broadcloth  and  the  absence  of  his 
cane,  without  which  emblem  of  authority  he  was  ever  a lost  man ; 
and  last  of  all  came  Cyril,  who  found  time  for  a word  and  a smile 
for  each  of  the  group,  and  left  them  all  exhilarated  by  his  passing 
presence  as  if  by  a draught  of  wine.  Then  the  bells  ceased,  the 
loungers  entered  the  church,  and  Granfer  himself,  the  sunshine 
warming  his  wintry  white  hair,  walked  slowly  with  the  aid  of  his 
stout  oak  staff  up  the  center  aisle  to  his  allotted  place. 

He  was  already  seated,  and  Cyril’s  musical  voice  liad  given  a 
deeper  pathos  to  the  sentence,  “ Hide  thy  face  from  my  sins,”  when 
Ingram  Swaynestone  and  his  sister  Maude  entered,  rosy  and  fresh 
from  their  long  brisk  walk  in  the  frosty  morning.  Ingram  Swayne- 
stone was  tall  and  fair  and  strongly  built,  the  typical  young  English- 
man, who  belongs  to  no  class  and  only  one  country,  physically  per- 
fect, good  tempered,  and  well  spoken,  with  a perfect  digestion  and 
a nervous  system  undistraught  by  intellectual  burdens  and  riddles  of 
the  painful  earth.  His  appearance  with  his  pretty,  fair-haired  sister 
caused  a tiny  stir  almost  imperceptible,  like  a summer  breath 
through  ripe  corn,  among  the  fairer  portion  of  the  congregation, 
with  whom  he  was  extremely  popular,  not  only  on  account  of  his 
good  looks  and  known  appreciation  of  feminine  charms,  but  also 
because  of  a faint  delicious  aroma  of  wickedness  that  hung  about 
his  name. 

The  devotions  of  several  undoubtedly  pious  young  maidens  were 
more  than  once  interrupted  for  the  purpose  of  looking  to  see  if  he 
was  looking,  w^hich  he  certainly  was  at  every  one  of  them  in  turn, 
when  opportunity  permitted ; while  Cyril’s  beautiful  voice  rang 
through  the  church,  and  Everard  and  Lilian,  who  had  always  loved 
and  admired  the  simple  majesty  of  the  Liturgy,  felt  that  they  had 
never  before  known  its  real  beauty. 

When  he  read  of  the  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,  one  or  two 
women  cried.  The  tone  in  which  he  read  that  Rachel  was  weeping 
for  her  children  and  would  not  be  comforted,  poignantly  reminded 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


75 


them  that  they  could  never  be  comforted  for  their  lost  little  ones 
buried  outside  in  the  sunny  church-yard.  Henry,  and  Lilian,  and 
Marion,  and  the  children  all  gazed  up  with  admiring  affection  at  the 
beautiful  young  priest  standing  white-robed  outside  the  chancel 
at  the  eagle  lectern,  Henry  thinking  that  the  music  of  Cyril’s  voice 
alone  surpassed  any  chanted  cathedral  service. 

Often  in  after  years  did  Henry  and  Lilian  think  of  that  sweet 
Sunday  morning  with  refreshment : the  solemn  beauty  of  the  old 
church,  with  its  heavy  Norman  arches;  the  sunshine  stealing  in, 
mellow  and  soft,  through  the  south  windows  and  tinging  the  snowy 
frock  of  Granfer,  who  sat  just  below  the  chancel,  and  leaned  for- 
ward on  his  staff  in  an  attitude  of  rapt  attention ; the  innocent  looks 
of  the  choir-boys,  among  whom  was  Dickey  Stevens,  fourth  in 
descent  from  Granfer,  and  whom  Lilian  had  delivered  from  the  tyr- 
anny of  the  rod  ; and  Mr.  Maitland’s  reverend  aspect,  as  he  bent  his 
silvered  head  and  listened  to  Cyril’s  pure  voice. 

But  the  moment,  which  lingered  in  his  heart’s  memory  till 
his  dying  day,  was  that  in  which  he  knelt  with  Marion  and 
Lilian  and  the  villagers  at  the  altar,  and  received  the  holy  sym- 
bols from  Cyril’s  own  consecrated  hands.  He  never  forgot 
Cyril’s  pale,  saint- like  features  and  white-stoled  form,  the  crim- 
son from  a martyr’s  robe  in  the  south  chancel  window  staining 
in  a long  bar  the  priest’s  breast  and  hands  and  the  very  chalice 
he  held. 

“I  was  so  glad,”  Lilian  said,  when  they  were  walking  home 
together,  Marion  having  stopped  to  speak  to  some  one,  “ to  see  you 
there,  Henry,  because  Cyril  is  often  troubled  about  your  daring 
speculations.” 

“ Your  father  never  fails  to  still  my  doubts,  Lilian,”  he  replied. 
‘‘  There  is  that  in  his  plain,  unpretending  sermons,  which  carries 
conviction  straight  into  one’s  heart.  Sermons,  as  a rule,  simply 
bore  me:  but  Mr.  Maitland’s — Well,  you  know,  he  always  was 
my  l)eau  ideal  of  a parish  priest.” 

Lilian’s  face  kindled.  ‘‘You  are  the  only  person  who  really 
appreciates  my  father,”  she  replied.  “Even  Cyril  does  not  quite 
know  what  gifts  he  has  buried  in  this  tiny  rustic  place,  and  willingly 
and  consciously  buried.” 

“I  honor  his  intellect,  but  still  more  his  heart,  which  speaks  not 
only  in  his  studiously  plain  sermons,  but  even  more  in  his  life, 
Cyril  could  take  no  better  model.” 


76 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


“ Trae  ; yet  we  all  think  Cyril  destined  to  something  higher,” 
rephed  Lilian. 

“By  the  way,  Henry,”  said  Cyril,  at  luncheon,  “I  took  your 
overcoat  by  mistake  this  morning.  I hope  it  didn’t  put  you  out 
much  ; my  things  are  all  too  small  for  you.” 

“ That  fellow  is  always  appropriating  my  property,  and  I am  too 
big  to  retaliate,”  growled  Everard,  who  had  forgotten  all  about  the 
tight  overcoat  of  the  morning. 

“ Oh,  I say,  Oywil,”  broke  in  Lennie,  “wasn’t  Ingwam  Swayne- 
stone  in  a wage  with  you  for  not  pweaching  this  morning!  He 
came  to  church  on  purpose,  and  he  does  hate  going  to  church  in 
the  winter,  he  says,  because  the  cold  nips  the  girls’  noses  and  makes 
them  look  so  ugly.” 

“ He  doesn’t  mean  that  nonsense,  Lennie,”  said  Mr.  Maitland, 
laughing  gently.  “ He  pays  his  rector  a fine  compliment,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,”  he  added. 

Cyril,  who  was  by  no  means  making  up  for  his  morning  fast, 
looked  as  if  he  thought  Ingram  was  more  likely  to  be  interested  in 
the  color  of  girls’  noses  than  the  quality  of  any  sermons.  Then  he 
learned  how  Ingram  had  called  with  offers  of  guns  and  horses  to 
Everard  and  himself,  and  had  been  at  play  with  Winnie,  who  was 
now  in  dire  disgrace  and  condemned  to  go  without  pudding,  in 
consequence  of  having  made  Ingram’s  nose  bleed. 

“Oh,  really,  mother!”  he  exclaimed,  stroking  the  bright  curls 
brushing  his  arms,  “isn’t  that  rather  hard?  Winnie  did  not  mean 
it ; it  might  have  been  her  nose.  Do  you  think  Ingram  will  go 
without  pudding.  Win?  Let  her  off,  mother.  I never  saw  a little 
girl  behave  better  in  church.” 

Whereupon  Winnie  was  respited,  after  many  comments  from 
her  elders  on  her  rough  ways  and  romping  habits  and  constant 
breakages,  which,  it  appeared,  were  a source  of  perennial  disgrace 
to  the  little  girl. 

Cyril  had  very  tender  ways  with  children,  and  was  almost  as 
sorry  for  hurt  things  as  Lilian.  That  very  afternoon  a child 
stumbled  and  fell  on  the  way  to  church,  and  Everard  saw  him  slip 
aside  in  his  long  cassock,  and  pick  up  the  howling,  dust-covered 
urchin  with  some  merry,  tender  observation,  wipe  away  the  tears 
and  blood  with  his  own  spotless  handkerchief  before  Wax  had  time 
to  bring  out  a denunciation  on  the  brat’s  heedlessness,  and  comfort 
him  finally  with  pence,  though  the  parson’s  bell  had  rung,  and  Mrs. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND,  77 

Wax  had  come  to  the  end  of  her  voluntary,  on  the  harmonium,  and 
begun  over  again  in  despair. 

The  morning  congregation  had  received  some  additions,  to  wit, 
those  lazy  Sabbatarians  who  kept  their  day  of  rest  so  literally  as  to 
get  up  too  late  to  go  to  church  in  the  morning,  those  mothers  too 
fatigued  by  performing  the  family  toilettes  to  perform  their  own, 
and  those  who  cooked  the  Sunday  dinners  and  minded  the  babies, 
the  majority  of  which  latter  accompanied  their  parents  to  afternoon 
service.  It  was  pleasant,  too,  to  observe  that  Ingram  Swayne- 
stone’s  piety  had  conquered  his  pain  at  the  eclipse  of  feminine 
beauty,  and  that  he  helped  to  swell  the  little  crowd. 

When  Cyril  ascended  the  pulpit,  he  looked  round  the  dim 
church  with  an  anxious,  searching  gaze,  and  Lilian  observed  that 
his  eye  rested  with  apprehension  on  the  Lees’  pew,  and  he  ap- 
peared relieved  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Lee  standing  there  alone.  Then 
he  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  Swaynestone  servants’  pew, 
where  Ben  Lee  sat,  glum  and  downcast,  and  Judkins,  with  a 
haggard  look,  held  his  hymn-book  before  his  face.  They  were 
singing  “ Hark,  the  herald  angels,”  Job  Stubbs  and  Dickie  Stevens 
bringing  out  the  treble  with  a will,  and  the  bases  bearing  their 
parts  manfully. 

Cyril  distinguished  all  the  voices — those  of  Lilian  and  Everard, 
Marian  and  the  children.  Sir  Lionel  and  his  daughters,  the  Rectory 
maids,  the  smock-frocks,  Tom  and  Jim  Hale,  Baines,  the  tailor,  who 
was  only  an  occasional  church-goer,  and  loved  to  air  his  bass  occa- 
sionally in  orthodox  ears — he  heard  even  Granfer’s  own  tremulous 
quaver,  which  had  been  a tenor  of  local  celebrity,  and  a crowd  of 
young  memories  rushed  over  him.  He  clutched  the  edge  of  the 
pulpit,  regardless  of  the  holly-wreath  which  encircled  it  and 
pricked  his  fingers,  and,  when  the  last  notes  of  Herald  angels  ” 
died  away  in  the  final  quaver  of  an  old  woman  half  a bar  behind, 
was  silent  for  a few  moments. 

At  last  he  recovered  himself,  and  gave  out  his  text — “Keep 
•innocency,  and  take  heed  to  the  thing  that  is  right,  for  that  shall 
bring  a man  peace  at  the  last.” 

He  felt  them  all  gazing  up  at  him — Lennie  and  Winnie,  with 
their  innocent  eyes  and  mouths  wide  open  to  hear  “ Cywil 
pweach”;  his  mother,  who  seldom  ventured  to  church;  Farmer 
Long  and  his  family;  the  well-known  villagers;  Granfer,  with  his 
head  on  one  side,  like  an  old  bird,  the  better  to  hear  him ; Ben 


78 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND. 


Lee — yes,  Ben  Lee  was  looking ; his  father  in  the  chancel  v^  as  look- 
ing also. 

Cyril  turned  pale;  Marion  caught  her  breath,  but  was  soon 
quieted  by  the  clear,  pure  notes  of  the  young  preacher’s  voice.  He 
could  not  but  pause,  he  said,  before  that  congregation,  and  question 
himself  deeply  and  sternly  before  he  presumed  to  address  them. 
They  had  seen  him  grow  up  among  them.  Many  were  his  elders, 
had  held  him  in  their  arms,  chidden  the  faults  of  his  boyhood, 
taught  him,  cared  for  him;  many  had  been  his  playmates  and  com- 
panions, known  his  weaknesses,  shared,  perchance,  in  his  escapades. 
How  should  he  speak  to  them  ? 

Everard  disapproved  of  these  personal  remarks  ; and  yet,  when 
he  heard  the  silver  tones  of  Cyril’s  voice,  his  easy  flowing  sentences, 
and  the  delicacy  of  his  allusions,  he  could  not  but  be  charmed. 
The  fact  was,  as  he  reflected,  that  Cyril  could  do  what  no  other 
man  might,  and  still  charm.  His  very  faults  and  weaknesses  were, 
in  a manner,  endearing. 

He  felt  it,  nevertheless,  a great  privilege,  he  continued,  to  be 
placed  there,  and  he  asked  of  their  patience  to  hear  him,  for  the 
sake  of  his  office.  Then,  referring  to  his  manuscript,  he  briefly 
touched  upon  the  story  of  the  martyred  innocents  and  its  lessons ; 
and  not  till  then  did  the  profound  snore  of  William  Grove  and 
other  accustomed  sleepers  arise.  Every  creature  had  kept  awake 
during  the  unaccustomed  prologue,  and,  indeed,  many  of  the  habitual 
sleepers  were  still  awake,  considering  it  only  fair  to  Mr.  Cyril. 
Then  the  preacher  spoke  of  the  beauty  of  innocence,  and  his  manner, 
hitherto  so  quiet,  changed,  and  became  more  and  more  impassioned, 
till  some  of  the  sleepers  woke  and  gazed  about  them  with  dazed 
wonder,  as  the  tones  of  that  clarion  voice  besought  them  all  to 
keep  innocency,  that  pearl  beyond  all  price,  that  one  costly  treasure 
without  which  there  was  no  light  in  the  summer  sun,  nor  any  joy 
in  youth  and  spring-time.  Then  he  painted  the  tortures  of  a guilty 
conscience,  the  agony  beyond  all  agonies,  with  such  power  and  pas- 
sion, and  such  a richness  of  poetic  diction  and  picturesque  imagery, 
that  many  a man  trembled,  some  women  sobbed,  and  poor  Ben  Lee 
uttered  a stifled  groan. 

Everard  grew  uncomfortable.  He  began  to  fear  some  unseemly 
hysteric  excitement  in  the  little  congregation,  and  was  distressed  to 
find  Marion  and  Mrs.  Maitland  crying  without  reserve.  Lilian’s 
eyes  were  moist,  but  she  did  not  cry ; she  was  pale  with  a reflection 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


Y9 


of  Cyril’s  white  passion.  Mr.  Maitland  covered  his  face  with  his 
surplice.  He,  too,  was  uneasy  and  more  affected  than  he  liked  to 
acknowledge  to  himself;  yet  he  hoped  that  Alma’s  betrayer  might 
be  present  and  have  his  heart  touched.  The  dusk  was  falling  fast 
in  the  dim,  deep-shadowed  building;  two  or  three  sparks  of  light 
glowed  among  the  white  robes  of  the  choir,  and  up  among  the  dark 
arches  Cyril’s  face  showed  haggard  and  agonized  in  the  little  isle  of 
light  made  by  the  two  pale  tapers  on  each  side  of  him  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

Long  did  the  little  congregation  remember  that  scene : the  hush 
of  attention,  broken  only  by  an  occasional  sob  from  some  woman — 
for  most  of  the  sleepers  were  awake  now,  and  dimly  conscious  of 
the  unaccustomed  passion  breaking  the  drowsy  air  around  them — 
the  great  growing  shadows  in  the  fast-darkening  church ; the  mass 
of  awe-struck  faces  pale  in  the  gray  gloom  ; the  rosy  gleams  of  the 
scattered  tapers  on  the  choristers’  surplices ; and  up  above  them, 
from  the  heart  of  the  mysterious  darkness,  the  one  beautiful,  impas- 
sioned face  in  the  lonely  radiance,  and  the  mighty  musical  voice 
pealing  forth  the  unutterable  anguish  of  sin ; and  the  light  which 
subsequent  events  threw  upon  it  only  rendered  it  the  more  impress- 
ive. 

“It  is  true,  indeed,”  said  the  preacher,  suddenly  easing  the  in- 
tolerable tension  of  his  passion,  and  speaking  in  calmer  tones,  “ that 
what  a holy  writer  has  called  ‘the  princely  heart  of  innocence,’  may 
be  regained  after  long  anguish  of  penitence  and  prayer,  but  the  con- 
sequences of  sin  roll  on  in  ever-growing  echoes,  terrible  with  the 
thunder  of  everlasting  doom ; the  contrite  heart  is  utterly  broken, 
and  the  life  for  ever  saddened  and  marred.  Innocence  once  lost, 
my  brethren,  the  old  careless  joy  of  youth  never  returns.  O thou, 
whosoever  thou  be,  man,  woman,  or  even  child;  thou  who  hast 
once  stained  thy  soul  with  deadly  sin,  ‘ not  poppy,  nor  mandragora, 
nor  all  the  drowsy  sirups  of  the  world,  shall  ever  medicine  thee  to 
that  sweet  sleep  which  thou  ow’dst  yesterday.’ 

“ Yet  despair  not,  beloved  brethren,”  he  added,  with  flute-like 
softne^  for  his  voice  had  again  risen  in  agonized  intensity  ; “there 
is  forgiveness  and  healing  for  .all.  But  oh!  keep  inn ocency,  keep 
innocency ; guard  and  treasure  that  inestimable,  irrecoverable  pos- 
session, that  pure  perennial  source  of  joyous  days  and  peaceful 
nights,  and  take  heed,  take  watchful  heed,  of  the  thing  that  is  right. 
Keep  innocency,  O little  children,  sitting  here  in  the  holy  church 
6 


80 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


this  evening,  beneath  the  eyes  of  those  who  love  and  guard  you — 
you  whose  souls  are  yet  fresh  with  the  dew  of  baptism,  keep,  oh, 
keep  your  innocency ! Keep  it,  youths  and  children,  who  wear  the 
chorister’s  white  robe!  Keep  innocency, young  men  and  maidens, 
full  of  heart  and  hope  : keep  this  one  pearl,  1 pray  you,  for  there  is 
no  joy  without  it ! And  you,  men  and  women  of  mature  years, 
strong  to  labor  and  bowed  with  cares  and  toils  innumerable — you 
who,  in  the  hurry  of  life’s  hot  noon,  have  scarce  time  to  think  of 
heaven,  with  its  white  robes  and  peace,  yet  see  that  you  keep  inno- 
cency through  all ! And  you,  standing  amid  the  long  golden  lights 
of  life’s  evening,  aged  men  and  women  who  wear  the  honored  crown 
of  white  hairs,  watch  still,  and  see  that  you  guard  your  priceless 
treasure  even  to  the  last.  Keep  innocency,  I conjure  you,  for  that 
shall  bring  a man  peace  at  the  last!  Peace,  peace,”  he  repeated, 
with  a yearning  intensity  that  culminated  in  a deep,  hard  sob, 
“peace!  ” 

He  paused,  and  there  was  a dense  silence  for  some  seconds,  and 
Everard  saw  that  the  blue  brilliance  of  his  eyes  was  blurred  with 
tears;  while  Sir  Lionel  and  Ingram  experienced  a sense  of  profound 
relief  in  the  hope  that  the  too  exciting  sermon  was  at  an  end.  The 
congregation  rose  joyously  to  their  feet,  eased  of  a strain  that  was 
becoming  intolerable. 

When  Cyril  had  left  the  pulpit,  his  father  pronounced  the  bene- 
diction on  the  kneeling  crowd  in  his  calm,  sweet  tones,  so  restful 
after  the  storm  and  passion  of  the  young  preacher’s  richly  com- 
passed voice.  But  the  blessing  did  not  reach  Cyril’s  distracted  soul. 
Taking  advantage  of  the  shadows  wlien  he  reached  his  place  in  the 
chancel,  he  glided  swiftly  behind  the  pillars,  like  some  hurt  spirit 
fleeing  from  the  benison  that  would  heal  it,  till  he  reached  the 
vestry,  where  he  threw  himself  in  a chair  behind  a screen  and  cov- 
ered his  face.  When  Mr.  Maitland  in  due  time  followed  the  choir 
thither,  he  did  not  at  first  observe  the  silent,  ghostly  figure  in  the 
shadow ; and  then  becoming  aware  of  him,  he  left  him  to  himself 
till  the  choristers  were  gone,  thinking  that  he  was  praying.  But 
on  approaching  nearer,  he  was  startled  to  hear  strong  sobs  issue 
from  the  veiled  figure. 

“My  dear  boy,”  he  remonstrated,  “this  will  never  do.  Too 
much  excitement  is  unwholesome  both  for  priest  and  people.  Come, 
master  yourself,  dear  lad.  You  are  unwell ; this  fasting  is  not  wise, 
Henry  was  right.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


81 


“Oh,  father,”  sobbed  Cyril,  “it  is  not  the  fasting!  Oh,  shut 
the  door,  and  let  us  be  alone,  and  let  me  tell  you  all — all  I ” 

“Come,  come,”  said  the  gentle  old  man;  “ calm  yourself,  and 
tell  me  whatever  you  like  later.  At  present  we  are  both  worn  out, 
and  need  change  of  thought.  You  have  a great  gift,  dear  fellow, 
and  I trust  your  words  have  struck  home  to  at  least  one  con- 
science— ” 

“They  have — oh,  they  have,  indeed!  ” repeated  Cyril,  with  in- 
creasing agitation ; “ and  that  miserable  conscience — Oh,  father, 
father!  how  can  I tell  you — ? ” 

“ Hash ! hush ! This  is  hysteria,  as  Everard  predicted.  Say  no 
more;  I insist  upon  your  silence.  Remember  where  we  are! 
Drink  this  water.  Stay  ! I will  call  Henry  ” ; and  Mr.  Maitland 
went  quickly  into  the  church,  where  Everard  was  yet  lingering 
with  Lilian,  who  always  had  various  errands  connected  with  the 
parish  to  transact  in  the  porch,  and  beckoned  him  to  the  vestry. 

Cyril  did  not  resist  his  father’s  will  any  more,  but  sank  back 
with  a moan,  half  of  anguish,  half  of  relief,  and  listened  meekly  to 
the  rough  kindliness  of  Everard  and  the  gentle  remonstrances  of  his 
father. 

“ This  is  a pretty  scene,  Mr.  Maitland,”  observed  Everard,  on 
entering  the  vestry.  “ 111  ? Of  course  he  is  ill,  after  exciting  him- 
self on  an  empty  stomach ! The  end  of  such  goings-on  as  these,  my 
friend,  is  Bedlam.  Take  this  brandy,  and  then  go  quietly  home  and 
get  a good  sleep,  and  let  us  have  no  more  of  this  nonsense,  for  good- 
ness’ sake.” 

So  Cyril  did  as  they  bid  him,  and  held  his  peace.  Had  he  but 
acted  on  his  heart’s  impulse,  and  spoken  out  then  as  he  wished,  he 
would  have  produced  sorrow  and  dismay  indeed,  but  the  long,  lin- 
gering tragedy  which  was  to  involve  so  many  lives  would  have 
been  for  ever  averted. 

Once,  perhaps,  in  each  crisis  of  our  lives,  our  guardian  angel 
stands  before  us  with  his  hands  full  of  golden  opportunity,  which, 
if  we  grasp,  it  is  well  with  us  ; but  woe  to  us  if  we  turn  our  backs 
sullenly  on  our  gentle  visitor,  and  scorn  his  celestial  gift!  Never 
again  is  the  gracious  treasure  offered,  and  the  favorable  moment  re- 
turns no  more. 


82 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


CHAPTER  YIIL 

“ Ay,  you  med  all  mark  my  words ! ” said  Granfer,  looking  sol- 
emnly around  from  under  the  shadow  of  his  bushy  gray  eye- 
brows. “ I’ve  a zaid  it,  and  I’ll  zay  it  agen — ay,  that  I ’ool,  let 
they  go  agen  it  as  may!  You  med  all  mark  my  words,  I zay. 
Queen  Yictbree’ll  make  he  a bishop  avore  she’s  done  wi’  ’un.” 

“Ay,”  chorused  the  listening  group,  who  were  standing  around 
the  village  oracle  in  the  church-yard,  looking  phantom -like  in  the 
pale  blending  of  sunset  and  moonrise;  and  then  there  was  a 
thoughtful  pause,  during  which  Granfer’s  shrewd  gray  eyes  scruti- 
nized each  face  with  an  air  of  challenge. 

“ Terble  vine  praiching  zure-ly,”  observed  Hale,  the  wheel- 
wright. 

“ Yine  ! you  med  well  zay  that,”  rejoined  Granfer,  sternly.  “ I 
tell  ’ee  all,  there  never  was  praiching  that  vine  in  all  Malbourne 
lands  avore ! Ay,  I’ve  a zaid  it,  and  I’ll  zay  it  agen ! ” 

“ Made  me  sweat,  ’ee  did,”  observed  Straun,  the  blacksmith, 
whose  Sunday  appearance  was  a caricature  on  his  burly  working- 
day  presentment ; for  broadcloth  of  Baine’s  rough  fashioning  now 
hid  the  magnificent,  muscular  arms  and  bare  neck ; a tall  hat,  too 
small  in  the  head,  replaced  the  careless,  smoke-browned  cap  of 
every  day ; and  the  washing  and  shaving  to  which  his  face  had 
been  subjected  gave  it  an  almost  unnatural  pallor. 

“ Ye  med  well  sweat,  Jarge  Straun,  when  you  thinks  on  yer 
zins,”  reflected  Granfer,  piously. 

“’Twas  terble  vine;  but  darned  if  I knows  what  ’twas  all 
about ! ” said  William  Grove,  scratching  his  curly  head  with  some 
perplexity. 

“ Ah ! Mr.  Cyril,  he  have  a dale  too  much  laming  for  the  likes 
o’  you,  Willum,”  returned  Granfer,  graciously  condescending  to 
William’s  weaker  intellect : “let  he  alone  for  that.  Why,  Lard  love 
’ee,  Willum,  I couldn’t  make  out  more’n  a quarter  on’t  mezelf ; that 
I couldn’t,  I tell  ’ee ! A vast  o’  laming  in  that  lad’s  head.” 

“ Ay,  and  some  on  it  was  poetry  ; I yerd  the  jingle  of  it,”  said 
sailor  Jim. 

“ Master,  now,”  continued  Granfer,  settling  himself  more  com- 
fortably against  a tombstone,  and  leaning  forward  on  his  stick — 
“ Lard  ’a  massey,  any  vool  med  understand  he ! He  spakes  in  his 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


83 


discoorses  jest  as  though  he  was  a zitting  in  front  of  vire  atop  of  a 
cricket,  and  a zaying,  ‘ Well,  Granfer,  and  how  be  the  taaties  a-com- 
ing  up  ? ’ or,  ‘ Granfer,  think  o’  yer  zins  avore  you  blames  other 
volk.’  Ay,  that’s  how  he  spakes,  bless  ’un!  He  don’t  know  no 
better,  he  don’t.  Can’t  spake  no  grander  than  the  Lard  have  give 
’un  grace  to.” 

“Master’s  a good  man,”  said  Straun,  defiantly.  “ He’ve  a done 
his  duty  by  we  this  thirty  year.” 

Ay,  he’s  well  enough,  master  is,”  continued  Granfer,  in  a tol-  ^ 
erant  manner  ; “ I never  had  no  vault  to  vind  wi’  he,  bless  un  ! A 
vine  vamily  he’ve  had,  too  ! He’ve  a done  so  well  as  he  could ; but 
a never  was  no  praicher  to  spake  on,  I tell  ’ee.” 

“Terble  pretty  what  Mr.  Cyril  said  about  preaching  to  them  as 
knowed  him  a boy,”  said  Tom  Ha!e.  “ Them  esskypades,  now,”  he 
added  fondly,  as  he  caressed  his  mustache  and  struck  one  of  his 
martial  attitudes. 

‘•What’s  a esskypade,  Granfer?  ” inquired  a smock-frock. 

“A  esskypade,”  returned  Granfer,  slowly  and  thoughtfully — “a 
esskypade,  zo  to  zay,  is,  in  a way  o’  spaking,  what  you  med  call  a 
zet-to — a zart  of  a scrimmage  like  ” ; and  he  fixed  his  glittering  eye 
fiercely,  yet  half  doubtfully,  on  Tom  Hale’s  face,  as  much  as  to  chal- 
lenge him  to  deny  it. 

“Just  so,”  responded  Tom.  “I  said  to  meself,  I said,  ‘Mr. 
Cyril  is  thinking  of  the  set-to  we  had  together  in  father’s  yard  that 
Saturday  afternoon  ; that’s  what  he  means  by  his  esskypades.’  ” 

“Ay,  and  you  licked  him  well,”  added  Jim,  eagerly;  ‘‘that  was 
summat  like  a fight,  Tom.” 

“ Master  Cyril  had  to  be  carried  home,  and  kep’  his  bed  for  a 
week;  and  Tom,  he  couldn’t  see  out  of  his  eyes  next  day,”  com- 
mented the  elder  Hale,  with  pride  in  his  brother’s  prowess. 

“ Ay,  you  dreshed  ’un,  zure  enough,  Tom,”  commented  Granfer, 
graciously. 

“ He  took  a deal  of  licking,  and  hit  out  like  a man,”  said  the 
modest  warrior,  who  loved  Cyril  with  the  profound  aflfection  in- 
spired only  by  a vanquished  foe. 

Tom  had  fought  sterner  battles  since.  He  had  been  through  the 
Indian  Mutiny  campaign,  and  known  the  grim  realities  of  Lucknow  ; 
but  his  heart  still  glowed,  as  he  saw  before  him,  in  his  mind’s  eye, 
the  prostrate  form  of  Cyril  on  the  grass  among  the  timber  of  the 
wheelwright's  yard — poor,  vanquished  Cyril,  slighter,  though  older, 


84 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


than  himself,  with  his  little  shirt  torn  and  blood-stained — and  heard 
the  applause  of  his  comrades  gathered  to  watch  the  fray; 

“ Well,  I minds  ’n,  a little  lad,  chivying  Granfer’s  wnld  sow 
round  meadow,”  struck  in  Stevens,  who  had  now  completed  all  his 
duties  in  the  church  and  locked  the  door,  the  great  key  of  which  he 
carried  in  his  hand. 

“ A vine,  peart  buoy  as  ever  I zee,”  reflected  Granfer,  “ and 
wanted  zo  much  stick  as  any  on  ’em.  I’ve  a smacked  ’un  mezelf,” 
added  Granfer,  with  great  dignity  and  importance;  ‘‘ay,  and  I 
smacked  ’un  well,  I did!  ” repeated  Granfer,  with  a relish. 

“You  was  allays  a good  ’un  to  smack,  Granfer,”  observed  his 
grandson,  the  clerk,  with  tender  reminiscences  of  Granfer’s  opera- 
tion on  his  own  person. 

“ Whatever  I done,  I went  through  wi’  ’t,”  returned  the  old 
man,  complacently  digesting  this  tribute  to  his  prowess.  “ Ay,  I’ve 
a smacked  ’un  mezelf,  and  I smacked  ’un  well,  I did,”  he  repeated, 
with  ever-growing  importance. 

“ Come  along  home ! ” said  Stevens,  who  was  waiting  to  lock  the 
lych-gate.  “You  bain’t  old  enough  to  bide  in  church-yard  for  good, 
Granfer.” 

“ Ah ! I bain’t  a-gwine  underground  this  ten  year  yet,”  returned 
Granfer,  shaking  his  head,  and  slowly  rising  from  his  tombstone  in 
the  blue  moonlight,  his  breath  showing  smokelike  on  the  keen  air, 
and  his  wrinkled  hands  numbed  doubly  by  age  and  the  winter  night. 
“ I bain’t  a-gwine  yet,”  he  muttered  to  himself ; while  the  group 
broke  up  in  slow,  rustic  fashion,  and  they  all  trudged  off,  Tom  lead- 
ing the  way,  erect  and  martial,  airily  swinging  his  little  cane,  and 
stepping  with  a firm,  even  stride ; Jim  rolling  along  with  a wide, 
swaying  gait,  as  if  there  were  an  earthquake,  and  the  church-yard 
ground  were  heaving  and  surging  around  him;  the  rustics  tramp- 
ing heavily  after,  with  a stolid',  forceful  step,  as  if  the  ground  be- 
neath them  were  a stubborn  enemy,  to  be  mastered  only  by  con- 
tinued blows;  and  soon  the  gray  church  stood  silent  and  deserted 
in  the  frosty  moonlight,  till  the  clock  in  the  helfry  pealed  out  five 
mellow  strokes  above  the  quiet,  unheeding  dead. 

At  that  hour  Ben  Lee  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  his  stables  and 
going  home  to  tea.  Judkins  and  he  were  kindling  their  pipes  at 
the  harness-room  fire,  each  with  a face  of  sullen  gloom. 

It  wasn’t  so  much  what  he  said,”  observed  Judkins;  “’twas 
how  he  said  it  made  them  all  cry.  He  seemed  kind  of  heart-broken 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


85 


about  it,  as  though  somebody  belonging  to  him,  some  friend  like, 
had  done  wrong.” 

‘‘  Do  you  think  he  was  thinking  of  my  poor  girl  ? ” asked  Ben, 
quickly ; and  Judkins  nodded  assent. 

“ He  always  had  a kind  heart,  had  Mr.  Cyril,  and  he  thought 
a deal  of  Alma,”  continued  Lee;  “lent  her  good  books  and 
that.” 

“ There  was  one  in  the  church  as  wasn’t  upset,  and  looked  as 
quiet  as  a whetstone  all  through — that  damned  doctor ! ” said  the 
young  man,  fiercely. 

“ Dr.  Everard  ? You  don’t  think,  Charles — ? ” 

“ Haven’t  I seen  him  walking  in  the  wood  with  her?  ” he  inter- 
rupted, with  imprecations.  “Why  did  he  come  sneaking  into  your 
house,  doctoring  your  wife  last  spring,  day  after  day  without  fail, 
and  always  somethink  to  say  to  Alma  afterward  in  another  room? 
Answer  me  that,  Ben  Lee ! ” 

The  man  was  half  stunned.  “ I'd  break  every  bone  in  his  cursed 
body,”  he  burst  out,  purple  with  passion,  “if  I thought  that!  And 
the  good  he  done  my  wife,  too,  and  I that  blind ! ” 

“ Blind  you  were,  Ben  Lee,  and  blind  was  everybody  else.  But 
I watched.  I’ve  seen  them  shake  hands  at  the  gate,  and  she  giving 
of  him  fiowers,  damn  him  I I’ve  seen  them  in  the  wood  there, 
standing  together,  and  he  showing  of  her  things  through  that  glass 
of  his  that  makes  things  bigger  than  they  ought  to  be.  Wait  till  I 
catch  him,  Ben,  that’s  all!  And  he  sitting  through  that  sermon, 
and  everybody  crying,  and  even  Mr.  Ingram  blowing  his  nose ; he 
sitting  as  scornful  and  cold  as  any  devil.  There’s  no  conscience  in 
the  likes  of  him ! ” 

“Charles,”  cried  Ben,  suddenly  clutching  the  young  man’s  arm 
with  a grip  that  brought  the  blood  to  his  face,  “ I’ll  kill  him ! ” 

Ben  was  purple,  and  quivering  from  head  to  foot,  and  Judkins’s 
passionate  anger  sank  within  him  at  the  sight. 

“ Hush,  Ben,  hush  ” he  said  ; “ don’t  you  do  nothing  rash.  Kill- 
ing’s murder,  Ben.  And  that  will  do  her  no  good.  No,  no;  I’ll 
thrash  him,  and  you  shall  thrash  him,  and  he  shall  be  brought  to 
book,  sure  enough  ; that’s  only  justice.” 

Poor  Ben  dashed  away  his  pipe,  covered  his  face  with  his  coat- 
cuff,  and  broke  out  crying. 

Lord  ha’  mercy ! ” cried  the  young  groom,  crying  himself. 
“You  do  take  on.  Ben.  Come,  Cv/me,  cheer  up,  man.  Better  days’ll 


86 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


come,  and  jou  may  see  her  married  and  haj^py  yet.  Come  on  home, 
Ben,  come.” 

And  he  drew  him  out  into  the  solemn  quiet  of  the  winter  moon- 
light, and  took  him  across  the  park  and  the  meadow,  and  wished 
him  good  night  at  the  door  of  his  sorrowful  home.  “ And  mind 
you,  Ben,  don’t  you  be  hard  on  her,”  he  said  at  parting.  ^ 

“If  Ben  comes  across  him,”  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he 
strolled  moodily  up  and  down  the  high-road,  whence  he  could  see 
the  Temple  white  in  the  moonlight,  with  its  one  window  faintly 
aglow,  “he’ll  do  for  him.  Ben’s  hot,  and  he’ll  do  for  him,  as  sure 
as  eggs  is  eggs.”  Then  he  vowed  to  himself  that  he  would  wreak 
his  own  revenge  first,  and,  if  possible,  save  Ben  from  yielding  to 
his  own  passionate  nature.  “ I’ll  track  him  down  like  a hound ! ” 
he  muttered,  striking  fiercely  at  the  frosted  hedgerow  with  the  light 
whip  he  carried. 

Everard,  in  the  mean  time,  was  serenely  happy  in  the  drawing- 
room at  Malbourne,  unconscious  that  he  had  an  enemy  in  the  world, 
much  less  that  men  were  scheming  against  his  honor  and  his  life. 
Nay,  he  did  not  even  dream  that  he  had  so  much  as  a detractor ; he 
loved  his  fellows,  and  was  at  peace  with  mankind. 

The  family  were  gathered  in  the  drawing-room  in  pleasant  Sun- 
day idleness,  save  Mr.  Maitland,  who  was  visiting  a sick  parishioner. 
Cyril  and  Marion  were  side  by  side  on  a remote  sofa,  dreamily 
happy  in  each  other’s  presence ; Henry  had  mounted  his  microscope 
within  reach  of  Mrs.  Maitland,  and  was  displaying  its  wonders  in 
calm  happiness  for  her  and  Lilian.  Mark  Antony,  after  careful  and 
minute  inspection  of  every  detail  of  the  strange  apparatus,  had  de-* 
cided  that  it  was  harmless,  though  frivolous,  and  expressed  this 
decision  by  deep  contented  purrs,  and  an  adjournment  to  Cyril’s 
knee,  where  he  saw  a prospect  of  long  continuation  and  peace : and 
Lennie  and  Winnie  occupied  the  hearth-rug,  and  divided  their  atten- 
tion between  the  dogs  and  the  microscope. 

When  Lilian  bent  over  the  tube,  with  the  strong  light  of  the 
lamp  touching  her  animated  face,  and  her  dress  rustling  against 
him,  Henry  thought  he  had  never  been  so  happy  in  his  life.  Now 
and  again  some  little  unexpected  incident,  some  glance  or  tone, 
revealed  to  him  the  delicious  truth  that  they  loved  each  other.  No 
one  else  suspected  that  any  change  had  come  over  the  fraternal 
relations  of  a lifetime;  they  possessed  this  young  happiness  as  a 
secret,  sacred  treasure,  and  feared  the  moment  when  it  must  ho 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


87 


revealed  to  the  world.  Everard  was  loath  to  part  even  with  the 
sweet  anguish  of  doubt  which  crossed  his  heaven  from  time  to  time ; 
it  was  so  delightful  to  watch  and  question  every  word  and  glance 
and  gesture  of  Lilian’s,  and  play  upon  them  a perpetual  daisy  game 
— “She  loves  me,  she  loves  me  not,  she  loves  me.”  Some  deep 
instinct  told  him  that  never  in  all  his  life  would  he  again  taste  such 
happiness  as  thi_.  blessed  dawn  of  love  yielded  him.  As  for  Lilian, 
her  manner  took  a little  shyness  occasionally  in  the  strange  fear 
which  is  the  shadow  of  unspeakable  joy. 

Soon  the  domestic  quiet  was  broken,  but  not  troubled,  by  the 
irruption  of  Stanley  and  Lyster  Garrett,  the  two  sons  of  l^orthover, 
who  liked  to  lounge  away  a Sunday  evening  at  the  Kectory,  and 
there  was  much  discussion  of  the  entertainment  to  be  given  the  next 
night  to  the  villagers ; and  then  the  girl  Garretts  were  brought 
across  the  park  to  assist  in  the  little  parliament,  and  kept  to  share 
the  informal  supper  which  was  a Sunday  feature  at  Malbourne. 

During  supper  a note  arrived  from  Swaynestone,  bidding  Ever- 
ard come  to  luncheon  next  day  to  meet  the  great  Professor  Hamlyn, 
who  had  seen  some  paper  of  Everard’s  in  a scientific  journal,  and 
expressed  a wish  to  see  the  writer.  This  was  a great  pleasure  to 
Everard,  and  a little  responsive  light  in  Lilian’s  face  told  him  that 
she  realized  what  making  this  man’s  acquaintance  meant  to  him. 

“ The  luncheon  was  a great  success,”  Everard  observed,  on  his 
return  to  the  Kectory  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day.  “The 
great  man  was  most  gracious ; he  did  me  the  honor  of  contradicting 
me  nine  times.  Sir  Lionel,  in  his  gentle  way,  was  a little  horrified 
at  his  lion’s  roar,  but  saw  that  I was  specially  honored  in  being 
selected  for  the  royal  beast’s  refection.” 

He  went  on  to  tell  how  thus  great  writer,  who  lived  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  was  entertaining  the  professor,  had  been  present,  and 
had  been  less  overbearing  in  manner  and  milder  in  language  than 
usual.  His  hair  had,  however,  evidently  not  been  brushed.  He 
was  questioning  Sir  Lionel  about  Cyril’s  sermon,  in  which  he  was 
interested,  since  he  had  a slight  acquaintance  with  the  Maitlands, 
and  had  already  detected  Cyril’s  bright  parts.  He  heard  of  the 
sermon  through  his  brother,  who  had  been  taking  a country  stroll 
the  previous  afternoon,  and  had  sauntered  unnoticed  into  the  church, 
just  at  the  beginning  of  the  sermon,  and  returned  home  with  the  in- 
telligence that  a young  genius  had  arisen  in  the  neighborhood,  with 
u voice,  manner,  and  power  unequaled  in  his  experience. 


88 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


Ingram  Swaynestone,  who  had  accompanied  Everard  hack  to 
Malbourne,  wondered  that  Cyril  should  stare  abstractedly  at  the  fire 
during  this  recital,  as  if  it  had  no  interest  for  him,  and  made  some 
remark  to  him  expressive  of  his  own  personal  appreciation  of  the 
sermon. 

“My  good  fellow,”  returned  Cyril,  facing  about,  and  speaking 
in  his  easy,  genial  fashion,  “do  you  suppose  that  I don’t  know  that 
I have  the  ‘ gift  of  the  gab,’  as  Everard  calls  it?  I don’t  know  that 
one  need  be  proud  of  it,  any  more  than  of  having  one’s  nose  placed 
in  the  middle  of  one’s  face,  instead  of  all  askew,  as.  befalls  some 
people ; and  yet  the  devil  is  quite  active  enough  in  persuading  me 
to  be  vain  of  it  without  my  friend’s  assistance.” 

“It  strikes  me  Cyril,”  broke  in  Everard,  “that  you  and  the 
devil  are  on  very  confidential  terms.  I should  have  thought  an 
innocent  young  parson  like  you  the  very  last  person  the  arch- 
enemy would  select  to  hob  and  nob  with.” 

“ As  if  the  premier  were  to  hold  confidential  chats  with  the  late 
ISTana  Sahib,”  added  Ingram,  laughing. 

Cyril  flushed  hotly,  and  then  said,  with  a quietly  dignified  air, 
of  which  he  was  master  when  he  wished  to  rebuke  gently,  “You 
are  light-hearted,  Henry  ; your  spirits  run  away  with  you.” 

Upon  which  Everard  could  not  resist  retorting,  with  unabashed 
gravity,  “ I trust  that  yours  will  not  run  away  with  you,  Cyril, 
since  they  are  of  such  a questionable  complexion.” 

“Come,  you  idle  people,”  broke  in  Lilian:  “it  is  time  to  go  to 
the  school-room.  Are  you  going  to  be  a waiter,  Ingram  ? There  is 
no  compulsion,  remember.  Henry  and  the  two  Garretts  are  enlisted. 
Keppel  Everard  is  our  Ganymede;  Marion  and  I are  Hebes.  In 
plain  English,  we  serve  the  tea,  and  Keppel  the  beer.” 

“Since  all  the  posts  are  filled,  I will  engage  myself  as  general 
slavey,”  said  the  good-tempered  Ingram,  rising  and  following  Lilian 
to  the  schoolrooms,  where  a substantial  meal  was  spread,  and  Mr. 
Maitland,  with  his  curate,  Mr.  Marvyn,  was  already  receiving  his 
humble  guests,  who,  unlike  the  guests  of  more  fashionable  enter- 
tainments, liked  to  arrive  before  instead  of  after  the  appointed  hour, 
and  in  this  case  came  long  before  all  the  candles  were  lighted,  so 
that  they  depended  chiefly  on  firelight  for  illumination. 

Soon,  however,  the  tables  were  full,  men,  women,  ^and  children 
sitting  before  a bounteous  supply  of  roast  beef  and  potatoes,  while 
the  air  became  oppressive  with  the  scent  of  crushed  evergreens  and 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


89 


steaming  food.  Mr.  Maitland  and  his  curate  had  one  table ; Cyril 
and* the  Rev.  George  Everard  presided  at  another ; and  the  children’s 
special  board  rejoiced  in  Lennie  and  Winnie  as  host  and  hostess. 

Profound  gravity  prevailed,  broken  only  by  an  occasional  femi- 
nine titter  or  childish  laugh,  though  it  was  evident,  from  the  expres- 
sion of  Granfer’s  face  when  he  came  to  the  end  of  his  first  plate  of 
beef,  that  he  contemplated  making  a remark,  probably  of  a jocular 
nature.  All  the  mirth  of  the  feast  seemed  to  be  concentrated  in 
the  faces  of  the  Hebes  and  Ganymedes,  who  flew  about  the  room 
with  the  greatest  enjoyment,  and  took  care  that  neither  plate  nor 
cup  was  empty.  The  two  most  assiduous  waiters  were  Ingram 
Swaynestone  and  Everard,  both  of  whom  appeared  to  have  the  gift 
of  ubiquity,  and  carved  with  a recklessness  and  rapidity  that  aston- 
ished all  beholders.  It  was  not  until  the  pudding  was  finished,  and 
grace  had  been  sung  by  the  choir,  that  some  symptoms  of  mirth 
and  enjoyment  began  to  break  out  among  the  rustic  revelers,  and 
Mr.  Maitland  laughed  with  his  usual  heartiness  at  Granfer’s  an- 
nual joke,  a fine  antique  one,  with  the  mellowness  of  fifty  years 
upon  it. 

It  was  pleasant,  while  the  tables  were  being  cleared,  and  the 
people  were  grouped  about  the  room,  to  see  Cyril  move  among  his 
old  friends,  saying  to  each  exactly  the  right  thing,  in  the  manner 
exactly  fitted  to  charm  each  ; going  up  to  Tom  Hale,  and  laying  his 
hand  afiectionately  on  his  stalwart,  red-coated  shoulder,  and  calling 
the  pleased  flush  into  his  face  by  the  manner  in  which  he  alluded  to 
old  times,  especially  the  immortal  battle. 

“ I should  be  sorry  to  fight  you  now,  Tom,”  he  added  ; “ or  Jim 
either.  It  is  well  that  my  calling  makes  me  a man  of  peace,  while 
yours  make  you  men  of  war.” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Cyril,  it  is  all  very  well  to  be  strong,”  replied  Tom; 
“ but  what’s  that  to  a head-piece  like  yours  ? ” 

“They  would  rather  have  a smile  from  Cyril  than  a whole  din- 
ner from  the  rest  of  us,”  Everard  observed  to  Lilian,  as  he  paused  a 
moment  in  his  toilsome  occupation  of  re-arranging  the  room.  “Just 
look  at  George,”  he  added,  pointing  to  his  reverend  brother,  who 
was  standing  disconsolate  and  dejected  in  the  quietest  corner  he 
could  find;  “he  is  afraid  that  people  are  enjoying  themselves.  Ho 
would  give  his  head  to  be  allowed  to  improve  the  occasion.” 

“ He  implored  my  father  to  substitute  hymns  and  clerical  ad- 
dresses for  our  frivolous  little  entertainment,”  replied  Lilian.  “ He 


90 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


asked  him  how  he  would  answer  for  having  let  slip  such  a precious 
opportunity  of  preaching  the  Gospel.” 

‘‘  Such  a gospel — 

“ ‘ The  dismal  news  I tell, 

How  our  friends  are  all  embarking 
For  the  fiery  port  of  hell.’ 

Poor  old  George ! What  a dreary  phantasmagoria  life  must  seem 
to  him ! ” 

Happily,  he  doesn’t  really  believe  his  creed.  He  asked  Granfer 
just  now  if  he  knew  that  he  was  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  grave. 
Granfer  replied,  ‘ Ay,  I’ve  ben  a-standing  there  this  ninety  year  and 
more,  and  1 bain’t,  zo  to  zay,  tired  on’t  yet.’  ” 

Everard  went  up  to  his  brother,  and  accosted  him.  “I  hope 
there  is  nothing  wrong,  George,”  he  said;  ‘‘you  look  as  if  some- 
thing had  disagreed  with  you.” 

“Thank  you,  Henry,”  he  replied,  “my  health  is,  under  Provi- 
dence, excellent ; but  I grieve  for  the  souls  of  these  poor  creatures. 
I have  ascertained  for  a fact  that  Maitland  has  caused  beer  and 
tobacco  to  be  placed  in  a class-room  for  the  men.  Why,  oh,  why 
will  he  not  lead  them  to  the  only  true  source  of  comfort  ? ” 

The  diners  were  now  joined  by  other  guests  of  a higher  grade: 
Farmer  Long  and  his  family  ; other  farmers ; a fresh  contingent  of 
Garretts;  and  last,  though  not  by  any  means  least.  Sir  Lionel 
Swaynestone  and  his  two  pretty  daughters. 

Thereupon  the  choir,  assisted  by  amateurs,  struck  up,  “My  love’s 
like  a red,  red  rose,”  and  the  concert  began.  Wax  executed  a solo 
on  the  clarionet,  of  such  fearful  difficulty  that  Everard  trembled 
lest  he  should  break  a blood-vessel ; and  everybody,  including  Mrs. 
Wax,  who  coursed  frantically  after  his  rapid  runs  and  flourishes  on 
the  piano,  breathed  an  inward  thanksgiving  when  he  bad  finished. 
A piano  duet  between  Miss  Swaynestone  and  Miss  Garrett  followed, 
and  was  not  the  less  tumultuously  applauded  because  the  superior 
swiftness  of  Miss  Garrett’s  fingers  landed  her  at  the  finish  two  bars 
ahead  of  Miss  Swaynestone,  who  played  on  to  the  end  with  un- 
ruffled composure.  Nobody  had  taken  the  slightest  notice  of  any 
of  these  performances,  save  Wax’s,  wffiich  alarmed  the  nervous;  but 
now  a change  took  place.  Cyril  led  Lilian  on  to  the  platform,  and 
Marion’s  piano  prelude  was  drowned  by  the  sound  of  heavy  feet 
plunging  in  from  the  smoking-room,  and  everybody  listened  atten- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


91 


tively  for  what  was  a really  delicate  entertainment  for  the  ear — a 
vocal  duet  between  the  twins.  Even  Sir  Lionel  left  his  stately  calm 
to  encore  the  simple  melody,  while  Granfer  did  serious  damage  to 
the  school  floor  with  his  stick.  It  was  not  that  the  brother  and 
sister  sang  with  unusual  skill,  or  that  their  voices  were  remarkably 
good,  taken  apart ; the  charm  lay  in  the  peculiar  sweetness  of  tone 
resulting  from  the  exact  blending  of  the  two. 

Ingram  Swaynestone  grumbled  in  a good-tempered  way  at  hav- 
ing to  read  after  this  performance,  and  though  he  read  a bit  of 
Dickens  with  great  spirit  and  humor,  Everard  observed  that  the 
audience  only  listened  and  applauded  as  a matter  of  duty.  Ethel 
Swaynestone  was  an  accomplished  singer,  but  her  voice  failed  to 
please  the  rustic  ear;  while  the  choir  glees  and  other  amateur 
music  were  received  as  a matter  of  course.  But  when  Cyril  once 
more  stood  on  the  platform,  and  began  in  his  rich,  pure  voice, 
“ There  was  a sound  of  revelry  by  night,”  Everard  was  startled  at 
the  sudden  hush  of  attention  that  fell  on  the  audience,  and  sur- 
prised at  the  richness  of  harmony  in  the  well-known  stanzas. 
When  Cyril  repeated  the  line,  “ But  hush ! hark ! a deep  sound 
strikes  like  a rising  knell!  ” the  rustics  started  and  looked  over  their 
shoulders  in  dismay,  and  one  susceptible  matron  uttered  a faint 
shriek.  “Did  ye  not  hear  it?  ” continued  the  reciter,  in  such  thrill- 
ing tones  that  Mrs.  Stevens,  meeting  the  light  of  Cyril’s  blue  eyes, 
took  the  question  personally,  and  replied  wildly  in  the  negative,  to 
the  general  consternation.  Having  brought  this  to  a conclusion  in 
such  a manner  that  his  unlettered  audience  actually  saw  the  ball- 
room scene,  “the  cheeks  all  pale,”  the  “ tremblings  of  distress,”  and 
actually  heard  the  sounds  of  approaching  doom  break  in  upon  the 
brilliant  revelry,  and  witnessed  the  hurried  departure  of  the  troops 
to  the  terrible  field  destined  to  be  fertilized  with  “ red  rain,”  Cyril 
paused  to  let  the  tumultuous  encores  subside;  and,  at  last,  when 
silence  ensued,  began  with  a plaintive  sweetness,  that  was  in  strong 
contrast  to  the  dramatic  force  and  fire  of  the  “Eve  of  Waterloo” — • 

“ ‘ I remember,  I remember, 

The  house  where  I was  born, 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn. 

He  never  came  a wink  too  soon, 

Or  brought  too  long  a day ; 

But  now — ’ ” 


92 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


Here  Cyril  paused,  with  a deep  sigh. 

“ ‘ I often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away.’  ” 

To  Everard’s  intense  surprise,  he  not  only  saw  tears  all  round 
him,  but  found  a sensation  of  intense  sorrow  and  longing  for  the 
past  stealing  over  himself,  while  the  pathos  of  Cyril's  voice  seemed 
to  break  his  heart.  He  saw,  as  they  all  saw,  Malbourne  Rectory, 
and  Cyril,  a hoy  once  more — gentle,  happy,  and  full  of  sweet,  in- 
nocent fancies ; and  when  the  latter  went  on,  in  his  quiet  voice,  so 
full  of  melodious  heart-break — 

“ ‘ And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday: 

That  tree  is  living  yet,’  ” 

something  rushed  up  into  Everard’s  throat  and  half  choked  him. 
He  knew  that  Cyril  was  thinking  of  a rose-tree  he  had  planted  on 
a far-off  birthday. 

“ ‘ But  now  ’tis  little  joy,’  ” 
said  Cyril,  with  a voice  full  of  tears — 

“ ‘ To  know  I’m  farther  off  from  heaven 
Than  when  I was  a boy.’  ” 

There  was  no  applause  to  this;  complete  and  tearful  silence 
reigned  when  he  finished  and  stepped  quietly  down  among  his 
friends,  where  Sir  Lionel  gently  rebuked  him  for  playing  so  cruelly 
on  their  feelfbgs,  and  added,  As  I said  to  Ingram  yesterday,  such 
a voice  and  manner  would  sway  the  House”;  and  every  one  was 
relieved  when  the  choir  struck  up,  “ All  among  the  Barley.” 

Lilian  was  among  the  few  who  did  not  give  way  to  tears  during 
the  recital  of  Hood’s  pathetic  little  poem,  though  Everard,  who 
hovered  near  her  all  the  evening,  observed  that  her  large,  soft  gray 
eyes  were  dewy  wet,  as  was  their  wont  when  she  was  moved,  and 
her  face  reflected  all  the  changes  on  her  brother’s.  It  was  not  easy 
to  get  very  close  to  Lilian,  because  she  was  fenced  in,  as  it  were,  by 
a little  ring  of  children,  who  clang  to  her  skirts,  and  laid  their 
cheeks  against  her  beautiful,  slender  hands,  and  were  perfectly 
happy  with  the  privilege  of  touching  her. 

‘‘  I do  not  think,”  she  said,  while  returning  to  the  Rectory 
through  the  frosty  moonlight  with  Everard,  “ that  Cyril  is  farther 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


93 


off  from  heaven  than  when  he  was  a boy.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  me 
that  one  must  grow  nearer  to  it  with  every  day  of  life,  unless  one 
deliberately  turns  from  it.” 

You  are  speaking  from  your  own  experience,”  replied  Henry. 
“Men  are  different.  To  go  through  early  manhood  is  to  be  drawn 
over  a morass  of  temptation,  into  which,  with  the  best  intentions, 
most  men  sink  occasionally.” 

“ Hot  men  like  Cyril,  Henry.  He  is  so  slightly  weighted  with 
flesh  that  he  would  skim  dry-footed  over  the  most  quaking  quag- 
mire. I know  every  thought  in  Cyril’s  heart.” 

Everard  was  half  inclined  to  indorse  this  opinion  of  Cyril.  He 
recognized  in  his  friend’s  character  a certain  feminine  element,  that 
croig  weibliche  which  Goethe  pronounces  the  saving  ingredient  in 
human  nature.  The  protecting  tenderness  with  which  he  loved 
the  bright,  gentle  boy,  two  years  his  junior  and  less  robust  than 
himself,  still  lived  in  his  deep  affection  for  the  pious  and  intellectual 
young  priest.  Cyril’s  feelings  were  sacred  to  him  as  a woman’s; 
he  feared  to  sully  their  delicate  bloom  by  harsh  allusions  to  the 
bare  facts  of  life.  He  was  one  of  the  twins,  both  of  whom  were 
objects  of  his  life-long  tenderness.  And  Cyril  had  his  moods,  like  a 
woman — a peculiarity  not  without  fascination  for  Everard’s  more 
thoroughly  masculine  mind. 

A soft  mood  was  on  Cyril  that  night.  He  knocked  at  Everard’s 
door  after  every  one  had  retired  for  the  night,  and  drew  a chair  to 
his  side  by  the  fire,  before  which  the  doctor  was  smoking,  and, 
investing  himself  in  one  of  Everard’s  coats,  lighted  a pipe  of  his 
own. 

“ The  coolness  with  which  the  fellow  takes  my  coats!  ” growled 
Everard. 

“It  is  no  matter  if  your  coats  smell  of  tobacco,”  replied  Cyril, 
tranquilly;  “I  smoke  so  seldom  that  I have  no  smoking-coats.  To- 
night I am  restless.” 

- “Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover?”  laughed  Everard.  “Be- 
cause Marion  is  gone  back  to  Woodlands  for  two  days,  I suppose.” 
“You  may  laugh,  Henry,  but  I feel  more  than  lost  without  her. 
I am  helpless,  separated  from  the  best  influence  of  my  life.” 

“ You  are  a slave  to  your  feelings  ; learn  to  master  them.” 

“It  is  true,”  replied  Cyril.  “You  are  the  best  and  wisest  friend 
ever  man  had.  I never  regretted  doing  anything  you  advised.  I 
shall  always  be  grateful  to  you  for  making  me  read  up  for  matho« 


94: 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


matical  honors.  I needed  that  discipline  to  steady  me.  I have 
never  valued  you  as  you  deserve ; only  now  and  again  it  flashes 
upon  me  that  what  I take  for  granted  is  of  superior  worth.  How 
selflsh  I was  about  letting  Marion  join  you  in  the  Mediterranean! 
You  little  dream  how  I suffered  for  that.  Well,  without  you, 
Marion  and  I,  would  have  been  parted  for  ever.” 

“ Without  Lilian.” 

“You  and  Lilian  together.  How  selfish  and  weak  I was!  and 
the  harm  that  came  from  it ! ” 

“ Oh,  come!  It’s  all  right  now ; a forgotten  story.” 

“There  are  things  that  can  never  be  forgotten,”  sighed  Cyril, 
with  the  pathetic  intonation  that  had  broken  people’s  hearts  in  the 
evening.  “ To  give  way  to  a sin,  only  one  sin,  is  like  letting  a little 
water  through  a dike.  A child  may  begin  it,  but,  once  begun,  the 
terrible  consequences  sweep  endlessly  on,  a very  flood  of  iniquity. 
I suppose  there  is  nothing  which  has  the  power  of  multiplying  itself 
like  sin.  One  hideous  consequence  begets  a hundred  more  hideous,” 
continued  Cyril,  staring  moodily  at  the  fire,  while  his  pipe  lay  ex- 
tinct and  neglected  by  his  side. 

“I  see  no  pulpit,  your  reverence,”  said  Everard,  who  was  puff- 
ing away  with  quiet  enjoyment. 

Cyril  turned  with  one  of  his  sudden  changes,  and  flashed  a 
mirthful  glance  of  liis  strange  blue  eyes  on  his  friend,  and,  replen- 
ishing his  pipe  from  the  tobacco  which  Keppel  had  brought  for 
Everard  on  his  return  from  his  last  voyage,  broke  into  a strain  of 
gay  affectionate  chat,  full  of  a thousand  reminiscences  of  the  school- 
days they  passed  together  under  Mr.  Marvyn’s  care  in  the  quiet 
village. 

“ What  a fellow  you  were ! ” exclaimed  Cyril,  with  enthusiasm, 
after  recalling  a certain  story  of  a Sevres  vase ; and,  though  Ever- 
ard only  grunted,  he  looked  at  the  graceful,  animated  figure  before 
him  with  an  affectionate  adoration  that  made  him  feel  it  would  be  a 
pleasure  to  die  for  such  a man.  “I  was  afraid  when  I smashed  the 
vase,”  continued  Cyril,  “ and  but  for  you  should  have  hidden  it.  I 
never  shall  forget  seeing  you  walk  up  to  Lady  Swaynestone  and  tell 
her  that  we  had  run  up  against  the  vase  and  broken  it.  I felt  such 
a sneak ; I had  done  it,  and  you  took  the  blame  on  yourself,  and  got 
the  punishment.  She  said  no  word,  but  delivered  you  such  a box 
on  the  ear  as  made  mine  tingle,  and  sent  you  staggering  across  the 
room.  Then  her  anger  found  words,  and  you  bore  it  all.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


95 


“I  never  knew  a ruder  or  more  ili-bred  woman,”  said  Everard. 

“ I suppose  you  got  over  the  box  on  the  ear  in  an  hour  or  two,” 
continued  Cyril;  “ but  I did  not.  I was  miserable  for  days,  hating 
myself,  and  yet  too  frightened  to  tell  the  truth.” 

Everard  here  produced  a yawn  of  cavernous  intensity,  and 
dropped  his  pipe  in  sheer  drowsiness ; but  Maitland  seemed  more 
alert  than  ever,  and  rose  in  his  restlessness  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  on  the  dark  vault  of  shimmering  stars. 

“The  night  wanes,”  he  said;  “one  day  more,  and  the  weary 
old  year  will  be  done — only  one  day.” 

“ Ungrateful  fellow ! ” said  Everard,  stretching  himself  till  he 
seemed  gigantic ; “ such  a good  old  year.  I shall  be  sorry  to  say 
good-by  to  him,  for  my  part.” 

Cyril  dropped  the  curtain  and  turned  to  the  fire,  his  features  all 
alight.  “Let  us  look  forward,”  he  said,  “ to  the  rosy  future.  Wel- 
come to  sixty-three,  Harry  ; it  is  .full  of  promise  for  us  both ! Good 
night,  dear  lad,  and  God  bless  you ! ” 

And  with  a warm  hand-clasp  he  took  his  leave,  but  turned 
again,  lingering,  irresolute;  and  then,  with  another  warm  hand- 
clasp and  blessing,  left  his  drowsy  friend  to  his  slumbers,  just  as  the 
church  clock  was  striking  three. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  last  day  of  the  year  dawned  bright  and  cloudless,  a very 
prince  and  pearl  of  winter  days,  and  Everard’s  heart  bounded  with- 
in him  as  he  looked  out  on  the  ruddy  morning,  and  felt  it  a joy 
merely  to  live. 

“I  shall  long  remember  sixty-two,”  he  thought;  “ it  has  been  a 
good  year,  and  to-day  will  crown  and  complete  the  whole.  To-day 
I will  make  sure  of  my  fate.” 

The  wine  of  life  never  before  had  the  sparkle  and  effervescence 
of  that  morning ; it  was  almost  tc  ; much  for  a sober  mind.  Had 
Everard  been  superstitious,  or  even  introspective,  he  would  have 
presaged  disaster  at  hand.  Instead  of  which,  he  rejoiced  in  his 
youth,  and  felt  as  if  his  body  were  turned  to  air,  as  he  sprang  down 
the  staircase  and  into  the  sunny  breakfast-room, 

7 


96 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


Mr.  Maitland  was  late  that  morning,  and  Cyril  read  the  simple 
household  prayers.  Everard  loved  this  sweet  custom  of  family 
prayer,  remiss  as  he  often  was  in  assisting  personally  at  it ; it  seemed 
so  tit  and  harmonious  for  that  holy  incense  to  ascend  from  the  altar 
of  the  innocent  country  home,  and  to-day  it  acquired  a sort  of  pathos 
from  the  youth  and  grace  of  the  reader.  The  scene  lived  long  in 
his  mind,  irradiated  by  a sweet  light  of  peace  and  holiness:  the 
kneeling  children  and  Lilian,  the  sunshine  touching  their  hair ; the 
bowed  heads  of  the  maids  ; the  dignified  bearing  of  the  reader ; the 
music  of  his  voice — a voice  soft  now,  and  soothing  as  the  murmur  of 
the  brook  beneath  the  trees,  with  none  of  the  tragic  tones  they  knew 
so  well.  Juat  as  Cyril  was  about  to  pronounce  the  closing  benedic- 
tion, Mr.  Maitland,  thinking  the  prayers  done,  entered,  and  seeing 
how  they  were  employed,  dropped  on  his  knees  in  time  to  receive 
the  lad’s  blessing.  The  sight  of  that  gray  head,  bent  thus  before 
the  young  priest’s  henison,  touched  Everard  profoundly,  and  he 
felt  humbled  to  think  of  his  own  world-stained  soul  by  the  side  of 
these  spotless  creatures — priests  and  women  and  children. 

“Lead  us  not  into  temptation,”  said  Cyril's  pure  rich  voice, 
chorused  by  the  iunocent  trebles  and  Everard’s  own  faltering 
bass. 

What  teqiptation  could  possibly  befall  those  guileless  beings  that 
day  ? What  harsh  dissonance  could  ever  mar  the  music  of  those 
tuneful  lives  ? he  wondered.  And  he  was  glad  that  his  own  faltering 
petition  had  gone  up  to  Heaven  with  those  of  hearts  so  pure,  though 
even  he  could  scarcely  fall  into  temptation  in  that  sweet  spot,  he 
thought. 

Cyril  announced  his  intention  of  walking  into  Oldport  that 
bright  morning,  and  Lilian,  of  course,  was  to  go  part  of  the  way 
with  him.  Everard  had  been  asked  to  shoot  over  some  of  the 
Swaynestone  covers,  and  rather  surprised  Cyril,  who  knew  that  his 
friend  liked  sport,  by  saying  that  he  had  declined  the  shooting  party, 
and  wanted  to  join  the  pedestrians. 

“ You  had  far  better  shoot,  Henry,”  he  said  ; “ a mere  walk  is 
a stupid  thing  for  you.  You  have  had  no  amusement  whatever 
since  you  have  been  here.” 

“ To-morrow  we  plunge  into  a vortex  of  dissipation,”  said 
Everard.  “ Will  you  give  me  the  first  dance,  Lilian  ? By  the  way, 
I suppose  his  reverence  has  given  up  these  frivolities.” 

“ Oh,  I shall  dance  at  Woodlands  to-morrow,”  replied  Cyril. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


97 


“ Just  two  square  dances  with  Marion,  and  then,  I suppose,  fare- 
well to  such  delights.” 

‘‘  I can  not  say  that  I like  to  see  a clergyman  dancing,”  observed 
his  father,  ‘‘  though  I danced  myself  till  I was  forty,  and  should 
enjoy  a turn  with  the  young  people  even  now.” 

“ Then,  let  us  have  a quiet  carpet-dance  while  the  boys  are  here,” 
said  Lilian;  “just  the  Swaynestones  and  Garretts  and  Marion,  and 
father  shall  dance  with  each  of  us  in  turn.” 

“ Oh  yes!  ” cried  Everard ; and  Cyril  chimed  in  with  great  ani- 
mation, “Just  one  more  fling  for  me”;  and  Mr.  Maitland  went  off 
laughing  and  saying  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — they  must  ask 
their  mother,  and  Lennie  and  Winnie  jumped  for  joy,  and  announced 
that  they  should  not  go  to  bed  before  their  elders,  and  the  little 
fete  was  regarded  as  a pleasant  certainty. 

Cyril  kept  them  waiting  some  minutes  after  the  appointed  time 
for  starting.  He  had  important  letters  to  write,  he  said ; and  when 
at  last  he  appeared,  his  face  was  full  of  care  and  perplexity.  In  the 
mean  time,  Lilian  and  Everard  were  very  happy  on  the  sunny  lawn 
together,  visiting  the  invalid  donkey  and  other  animals,  and  wan- 
dering about  their  old  playground,  past  the  spot  where  the  twins 
used  to  play  at  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  where  Everard  helped  them 
build  a hut,  and  recalling  a thousand  pleasant  memories  of  their 
childish  labors  and  sports.  There  was  hoar-frost  on  the  delicate 
branches  of  the  leafless  trees,  and  the  sunshine  was  broken  into  a 
thousand  jewel-like  radiances  by  the  little  sharp  facets  of  the  ice- 
crystals.  There  was  an  unwonted  sparkle  also  in  Lilian’s  eyes, 
and  a deeper  glow  on  her  cheeks  than  usual.  The  air  was  like 
wine. 

The  blacksmith  was  clinking  merrily  at  his  glowing  forge  as  they 
passed  along  the  road,  and  his  blithe  music  carried  far  in  the  still 
air.  Granfer  was  sunning  himself  outside,  according  to  custom, 
ready  for  a chat  with  anybody,  and  commanding  from  his  position 
a view  of  all  the  approaches  to  the  village.  Hale,  the  wheelwright, 
was  there,  getting  some  ironwork  done,  and  turned  with  Granfer 
to  look  after  the  trio. 

“Ay,”  observed  the  latter,  shaking  his  head  wisely,  “aviner 
pair  than  they  twins  o’  ourn  you  never  see,  John  Hale,  so  well 
matched  they  be  as  Sir  Lionel’s  bays.” 

“A  pretty  pair,”  replied  the  wheelwright;  “but  give  me  the 
doctor.  There’s  muscle  and  build  ! ” 


98 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


“Ay,”  echoed  Straun,  between  the  rhythmic  hammer-strokes; 
“ a man  like  he’s  a credit  to  his  vittles.” 

The  young  doctor’s  appearance  certainly  justified  this  observa- 
tion, and  his  walk  and  hearing  fully  set  off  the  robust  manliness  of 
his  athletic  frame,  v/hich  was  further  enhanced  by  contrast  with 
Cyril’s  slender  grace.  The  friends  were  of  similar  height,  but 
Henry’s  shoulders  were  higher,  and  made  him  look  taller;  his  chest 
and  back  were  far  broader  than  Cyril’s,  and  his  well-balanced  limbs 
were  hard  with  muscle.  The  suit  of  gray  which  he  wore  gave  him 
breadth,  and  displayed  his  form  more  fully  than  did  Cyril’s  black 
broadcloth  of  severe  clerical  cut,  which  had,  moreover,  the  well- 
known  effect  of  lessening  the  outlines  of  the  figure.  The  delicato 
glow  which  the  sparkling  air  had  called  into  Cyril’s  worn  cheek 
was  very  different  from  the  firm  hue  of  health  in  Henry’s  honest 
face ; and  the  fearless,  frank  gaze  of  his  bright  brown  eyes,  and  the 
light  brown  mustache,  looking  golden  in  the  sunshine,  gave  him 
an  older  look  than  Cyril’s  clean-shaven  features  wore. 

Hale  observed  to  Granfer  that  whoever  attacked  the  doctor  on 
a dark  night  would  find  him  an  ugly  customer,  which  Granfer  ad- 
mitted, adding  that  Cyril’s  strength  all  went  to  brain  power,  in 
which  he  was  supreme.  Lilian  also  observed  Henry’s  athletic  ap- 
pearance in  contrast  with  her  brother’s  slight  build,  and  then  she 
remembered  how  the  friends  but  the  day  before  had  been  playing 
with  the  children  in  the  hall,  and  the  fragile-looking  Cyril  had 
given  his  muscular  friend  a blow  so  clean  and  straight  and  well 
planted  that  the  doctor  had  gone  down  like  a ninepin  before  it,  to 
the  great  amusement  of  the  children  and  satisfaction  of  Everard. 

Farmer  Long  was  driving  into  Oldport  in  his  gig,  and  there 
beside  him  sat  Mr.  Marvyn,  charmed  to  see  his  three  pupils  together. 
“ I shall  not  see  you  again,  Henry,”  he  said  regretfully,  “unless  you 
stay  over  Sunday.  I only  came  back  for  the  entertainment  yester- 
day. I have  a parson’s  week  to  finish.  Cyril  I shall  see  again.” 
And  so  they  parted  with  regret,  since  Everard  was  greatly  attached 
to  his  old  tutor,  who  had  encouraged  and  developed  his  taste  for 
natural  science,  and  upheld  him  in  his  choice  of  a profession. 

“And  I wanted  to  tell  old  Marvyn  about  my  germ  theory,” 
Everard  said,  as  the  gig  disappeared. 

“You  will  be  able  to  tell  the  whole  world  soon,”  replied  Lilian^ 
to  whom  the  theory  had  been  confided  and  explained  that  very 
morning. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


99 


“ITot  yet,”  said  Everard;  “it  takes  years  of  patient  study  and 
experiment  to  verify  a scientific  theory.” 

“ Old  Hal  always  was  a patient  fellow,”  Cyril  observed.  “ Do 
you  remember  the  rows  about  his  dissections  in  bis  bedroom,  Lill?  ” 
Lilian  replied  that  she  remembered  the  odors,  and  they  all 
laughed  over  the  old  scbool-room  jokes  and  catastrophes,  and  were 
very  happy  as  they  climbed  the  hillside  by  a field-path,  leaving  the 
road  below  them.  Afterward  Everard  remembered  the  rare  and 
affectionate  expression,  “ Old  Hal.”  And  now  in  the  bright  sun- 
shine he  was  pleased  to  see  Cyril  so  like  his  old  self,  careless,  cordial, 
and  light-hearted,  all  the  asceticism  and  sadness  put  away ; ambi- 
tion, toil,  and  care  completely  forgotten.  He  knew  that  Cyril  loved 
Marion  truly,  and  would  be  happy  with  her,  and  yet  it  struck  him 
that  morning  that  his  strong  half-instinctive  affection  for  his  twin 
sister  touched  a yet  deeper  chord  in  his  nature.  Now  that  Marion 
was  away,  there  was  a greater  ease  about  the  twins ; each  seemed 
to  develop  the  other’s  thoughts  in  some  mysterious  manner.  They 
laughed  to  each  other,  and  walked  hand-in-hand  like  children,  see- 
ing everything  through  each  other’s  eyes — the  still,  sunny  winter 
fields  and  brown  woods  stretching  away  to  the  sea,  the  flocks  of 
weird  white  sea-gulls,  the  occasional  rabbit  or  pheasant  starting  up 
before  them,  the  larks,  silent  now,  fluttering  over  the  grassy  furrows, 
the  bright  berries  in  copse  and  hedgerow,  the  sheep  peacefully 
munching  the  mangolds  a solitary  shepherd  was  cutting  for  them 
in  a lonely  field.  They  called  each  other  Cyll  and  Lill,  abbreviations 
none  else  ever  used ; they  contradicted  each  other  as  they  never 
dreamed  of  contradicting  anybody  else. 

Everard  walked  along,  sometimes  by  their  side,  sometimes  behind 
them,  as  the  nature  of  the  path  obliged,  and  listened  to  them  and 
loved  them.  The  twins  were  never  so  delicious  to  him  as  when 
together  in  his  familiar  presence,  of  which  they  seemed  to  make  no 
account.  So  long  as  those  two  could  meet  together  thus,  an  immor- 
tal childhood  would  be  theirs,  he  thought;  age  could  never  rob  the 
beautiful  bond  between  them  of  its  bloom.  Presently  they  quarreled. 
Lilian  sat  on  a felled  tree  in  the  woods  through  which  they  were 
passing;  Cyril  leant  up  against  a tree  ; and  Everard  looked  on  witt 
amusement,  and  loved  them  all  the  more  in  their  childishness. 

“ Oh,  you  babes  in  the  wood ! ” he  cried  at  last ; whereupon 
Cyril  flashed  upon  him  one  of  his  droll  glances,  and  laughed. 

“ Come,  Lill,”  he  said,  “ I forgive  you  this  time.” 


100 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


Absolute  harmony  and  utter  unconsciousness  of  past  anger  waa 
established  between  them  ou  the  instant,  and  Everard  was  amused 
to  hear  them  plunge  straightway  into  a grave  discussion  upon  the 
limits  of  free  will. 

They  were  now  high  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  could  see  the 
lovely  stretches  of  down  sweeping  away  to  the  unseen  sea  on  one 
side,  while  on  the  other  the  Swaynestone  lands  sloped  down  with 
wood  and  park  and  farmstead  till  they  merged  in  the  horizon,  which 
was  broken  here  and  there  by  tiny  blue  bays  of  inland  sea  on  the 
north. 

There  was  no  sound;  all  the, song-birds,  even  the  robin,  were 
hushed  by  the  frost,  and  the  whole  landscape  lay  silent  before  them, 
folded  in  the  awful  purity  of  winter  sunshine.  The  shadows  in  the 
hills  and  woods  were  blue,  and  distant  objects  looked  immensely 
far  in  the  violet  haze  of  the  winter  morning.  Here  they  paused, 
deep  in  their  argument,  and  looked  down  over  the  tranquil  woods 
and  saw  the  white  front  of  Swaynestone  House  gleaming  in  the 
sun. 

Down  in  a low-lying  fallow  field  there  were  some  black  specks 
motionless  in  the  furrows;  suddenly  they  rose  in  a black  cloud  of 
wings,  and  there  were  a hundred  silver  flashes  against  the  belt  of 
coppice  bordering  the  field.  Higher  still  the  cloud  rose,  and  swift 
gleams  of  black  and  silver  flashed  in  rhythmic  sequence  against  the 
pure  blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  weird  wail  of  the  plover  was  heard 
faintly,  as  the  flock  floated  in  a dazzle  of  white  bodies  and  black 
wings  over  the  coppice  till  they  reached  another  field,  into  the 
furrows  of  which  they  dropped  motionless.  While  Everard  and 
Lilian  were  watching  the  plovers,  they  did  not  observe  that  Cyril 
plunged  into  the  wood  behind  them  and  put  his  hand  into  the  hol- 
low of  a tree. 

“I  was  looking  for  a squirrel’s  nest,”  he  said,  strolling  back 
again.  ‘‘Listen;  I will  imitate  a chaffinch.” 

It  was  a trick  they  used  to  practice  when  parted  from  each 
other  in  the  woods,  and  they  looked  down  over  the  roof  of  the 
Temple,  which  lay  among  the  trees  below  them,  and  thought  of 
their  old  rambles  for  nuts  and  blackberries,  when  little  Alma  would 
often  join  them  and  tell  them  where  to  find  heavy-laden  boughs 
and  brambles.  Suddenly  from  among  the  trees  rose  the  call  of 
another  chaffinch,  exactly  corresponding  to  Cyril’s. 

“Some  children  at  play,”  said  Cyril  carelessly;  “ Lennie  and 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


101 


Winnie,  perhaps.  They  were  going  to  Swaynestone  to  slide.  I 
must  get  on,  Everard;  I have  a lot  to  do  in  Oldport.” 

“ ‘ Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a  : 

A merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a mile-a,’  ” 

Everard  sang  out  in  his  deep  voice,  as  the  trio  continued  their  walk 
at  a mended  pace. 

After  another  mile  through  hanging  woods  of  beech  and  syca- 
more, they  descended  a hill  and  climbed  another  crested  with  cop- 
pice, through  which  they  passed,  brushing  the  heavy  hoar-frost 
from  the  dead  leaves  and  twigs  as  they  went,  and  pausing  for  Lilian 
to  show  them  the  haunt  of  a little  wren  in  a bank.  The  tiny  bird, 
attracted  by  some  crumbs  sprinkled  on  her  muff,  came  cautiously 
out,  climbed  up  her  arm,  pecked  its  dainty  meal,  and  suffered  itself 
to  be  raised  on  the  muff  to  the  level  of  her  face,  in  which  it  gazed 
confidingly,  even  venturing  to  peck  at  a little  stray  fluff  of  a curl 
which  stole  over  her  neck.  Everard  and  Maitland  stood  apart  and 
watched  this  pleasant  comedy. 

‘‘You  had  the  same  power  over  animals  as  Lilian,”  Everard 
observed  to  Cyril.  “ What  is  its  secret,  I wonder  ? ” 

“There  are  three  moral  factors,”  replied  Cyril:  “perfect  self- 
control,  that  warm  and  intelligent  affection  which  we  call  sympathy, 
and  innocence.  Lilian  is  the  most  guileless  human  being  on  the 
face  of  this  earth.  There  must  also  be  some  physical  attraction,  I 
suspect — some  mesmeric  or  electric  power,  of  which  we  know 
little.” 

“ But  surely  you  possess  the  three  moral  factors  ; how  is  it  you 
have  lost  your  power  ? Lilian  was  saying  only  last  night  that  the 
good  draw  nearer  Heaven  with  increasing  years,  and  you,  whose 
life  has  been  not  merely  stainless,  but  austere — ” 

“Henry,”  interrupted  Cyril,  in  his  most  pathetic  voice,  “I  am  a 
man  ! ” 

Lilian  had  replaced  her  tiny  friend  at  his  house-door,  and  now 
joined  the  young  men,  who  went  on  their  way,  Everard  struck  and 
startled  by  the  heart-broken  accent  Cyril  laid  on  the  word  man.  and 
wondering  if  the  morbid  tone  he  had  of  late  detected  in  the  young 
priest’s  mind  did  not  almost  verge  on  insanity. 

At  the  end  of  the  coppice  through  which  they  were  passing  was 


102 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


a stile  standing  on  a steep  bank,  which  led  hj  rough  steps  down 
into  the  high-road,  and  here  they  parted,  the  twins  once  more  fall- 
ing into  discord,  each  offering  Henry  as  a companion  to  the  other, 
and  declining  to  selfishly  appropriate  him,  until  he  laughingly  sug- 
gested that  he  was  no  mere  chattel,  but  a being  endowed  with  will ; 
also  that  his  will  decided  to  take  the  homeward  path  with  Lilian — 
a decision  which  evidently  satisfied  Cyril,  who  sprang  down  the 
steep  bank,  and  turned,  on  reaching  the  road,  to  the  stile — over 
which  the  other  two  leaned — with  a laughing  face,  and  lifted  his 
hat  in  his  own  graceful  manner.  They  gazed  after  the  light,  well- 
carried  figure  for  a moment  or  two,  little  imagining  how  all  the 
fight  died  out  of  the  bright  young  face  when  it  turned  from  them, 
what  a weight  of  trouble  lined  the  clear  brow  and  drew  down  the 
corners  of  the  delicate  mouth,  and  added  ten  years,  at  least,  to  his 
apparent  age,  and  then  they  began  to  retrace  their  steps  through 
the  wood. 

“ It  is  like  old  times,”  Lilian  observed.  “ Cyril  and  I are  grow- 
fng  old  and  wise,  Henry;  we  are  seldom  like  that  now.  We  seem 
to  grow  apart,  which  we  must  expect.” 

“ ‘ The  old  order  changeth,  giving  place  to  new,’  ” quoted  Ever- 
ard.  The  new  may  be  better,  but  one  does  not  like  to  part  with 
the  old,”  he  added  falteringly,  after  a pause, 

‘‘The  old — was  good,”  replied  Lilian,  rather  absently;  and 
the  perfect  self-command  of  which  her  brother  had  spoken  sud- 
denly deserted  her,  with  the  consciousness  that  the  story  of  her 
life  and  love  was  approaching  a crisis,  and  the  two  walked  on  in 
silence. 

Everard’s  bright  spirits  seemed  to  have  flown  onward  in  the 
wake  of  Cyril,  his  heart  sank  down  like  a thing  of  lead,  and  a dread- 
ful vision  of  all  his  sins  and  shortcomings,  his  weaknesses  and  fail- 
ings, rose  ghastly  and  oppressive  before  him.  Henry  Everard 
appeared  to  him  as  the  merest  rag  of  a man — the  most  complete 
failure  that  ever  issued  from  the  workshops  of  nature  and  education. 
He  stole  a glance  at  Lilian,  walking  with  her  light  step  and  airy 
carriage  by  his  side ; a sweet  picture  of  stainless  womanhood,  her 
cheek  flushed  with  purest  rose  by  exercise,  her  eyes  cast  down  con- 
trary to  their  wont,  her  hair  touched  into  golden  tints  by  the  sun- 
light, and  the  outline  of  her  form  traced  clearly  against  a back- 
ground of  frosted  hazel  boughs,  and  his  spirit  died  within  him. 
What  had  he  to  offer  her?  How  could  he  ever  dare?  And  yet— 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


103 


Lilian  turned  under  the  stress  of  his  ardent  gaze,  and  met  his  eyes 
for  one  swift  moment ; then  her  looks  resumed  their  commerce  with 
the  mossy,  frost-veined  path,  and  a rich  rush  of  crimson  flooded  her 
face. 

“ Lilian,”  began  Henry,  breathlessly,  “ we  have  been  great  friends 
all  our  lives.” 

‘‘  Yes,”  replied  Lilian,  regaining  her  natural  mental  poise ; “ Cyr- 
il and  I always  appropriate  each  other’s  goods.” 

“ Supposing  Cyril  out  of  the  question,”  he  added  hastily,  “ would 
you  not  care  for — value  my  friendship  ? In  short,  am  I not  your 
own  personal  friend?  Don’t  you  care  a little  for  me  for  my  own 
sake,  Lilian  ? ” 

“ Indeed  I do,  dear  Henry,”  she  replied,  a little  tremulously. 
‘‘There  is  no  friend  for  whom  I — whom  I value  more  highly.  That 
is — yes,  we  are  real  friends.” 

“You  were  always  dear  to  me,  very  dear — as  dear  as  Marion 
herself,”  continued  Henry;  “but  you  have  become  the  dearest  of 
of  all  since  I scarcely  know  when — the  very  dearest  human  being 
on  earth.  Oh,  Lilian,  the  truth  is  that  I love  you  with  all  my 
heart!  I have  loved  you  long ; I can  not  tell  when  I began.” 

“ That  is  not  the  important  question,”  returned  Lilian,  with  a 
little  smile  dawning  about  her  lips  and  eyes.  “ The  question  is, 
how  long  do  you  mean  to  go  on  ? ” 

The  same  quaint,  half-humorous,  half-pathetic  expression  which 
so  often  lighted  Cyril’s  pale  blue  eyes  now  gleamed  from  Lilian’s 
gray  orbs,  moistened  with  the  sweet  dew  which  so  frequently  en- 
hanced their  luster,  and  even  in  that  passionate  moment  Henry 
observed  this,  and  thought  how  closely  his  love  and  his  friendship 
were  hound  together,  and  realized  that  Cyril  was  dearer  than  ever 
to  him  now  that  Lilian  was  his. 

The  answer  to  Lilian’s  playful  earnest  was  the  old  immemorial 
assertion  of  lovers,  repeated  with  endless  delightful  iteration,  long 
drawn  out  with  Heaven  knows  how  much  unnecessary  sweetness. 
The  old  unvarying  song  the  birds  sing  every  spring,  with  a fresh 
charm  that  never  cloys,  though  the  whiteheaded  man  heard  it  in  his 
childhood,  and  in  the  days  when  he  too  swelled  the  many-voiced 
marriage  hymn  which  ascends  perpetually  from  the  youth  and 
strength  of  earth  ; the  old  eternal  song  which  is  yet  the  freshest 
sound  that  ever  falls  on  the  ear  of  youth,  and  Alls  it  with  a sweet 
bewildered  surprise  ; the  theme  which  changed  Eden  from  a prison 


104 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


to  a home ; — this  delicious  melody  was  sung  over  again  in  the  win* 
try  woods  that  day,  when  all  the  birds  were  hushed  by. the  frost, 
and  the  earth  lay  still  in  its  winter  trance. 

The  singing  of  this  pleasant  duet  took  a long  time,  and  the  low 
midwinter  sun  passed  its  meridian  and  traveled  some  distance  on 
its  westward  way,  while  they  strolled  slowly  on  with  many  pauses, 
slowly  enough  to  chill  blood  not  warmed  by  the  current  of  vital 
llarne  which  young  love  sends  through  the  veins,  until  they  reached 
the  spot  above  the  Temple,  where  they  watched  the  plovers’  flight 
in  the  morning.  They  paused  there. 

At  that  moment  a delicate  music  floated  up  from  the  valley,  the 
well-known,  cheery  chiming  of  the  wagon-bells.  Nearer  and  nearer 
the  golden  harmony  swelled,  stronger  and  stronger  the  fairy  peals 
waxed,  as  the  team  approached  on  its  way  along  the  high-road  to 
Oldport,  till  the  soft  chimes  came  tumbling  in  the  fu*ll  power  of  their 
sweet  turbulence  upon  the  clear,  still  air. 

“ Those  are  our  wedding-bells,”  said  Everard,  as  they  passed  on 
and  let  the  melodious  clashing  die  away  behind  them  in  the  distance. 
“ It  is  a good  omen.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  irony  of  fate  will  often  have  it  so  that  when  life  gains  its 
culminating  point  of  happiness  it  is  but  one  degree  from  the  dark- 
est hour  of  overthrow ; just  as  the  blossom  has  reached  its  sweetest 
bloom,  the  blighting  frost  comes,  and  all  is  over.  When  Everard 
and  Lilian  exchanged  the  promise  whose  sweetness  was  to  live 
through  so  many  dark  and  lonely  years,  they  little  dreamed  that 
any  peril  was  near  them  in  the  silent  wood.  They  saw  no  crouch- 
ing figure  trembling  behind  the  hazel  bushes ; they  did  not  guess 
that  any  eye,  save  those  of  the  wild  creatures  of  the  wood,  wit- 
nessed their  betrothal ; and  they  went  on  their  way  rejoicing, 
making  plans  for  the  happy  future  they  were  to  spend  side  by 
side. 

When  Ben  Lee  went  home  to  dinner  that  day,  the  young  groom, 
Judkins,  accompanied  him,  as  he  often  did  now,  finding  a strange 
solace  to  his  own  grief  in  that  of  the  troubled  father,  and  pleased 
that  the  old  man  turned  to  him  for  consolation.  He  usually  left 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


105 


Lee  at  the  door,  hut  on  this  occasion  Mrs.  Lee  came  out  and  beck- 
oned him  in. 

“ She’s  gone  to  meet  him,”  she  said  excitedly.  “ She  made  be- 
lieve to  go  and  gather  a bit  of  brushwood  in  the  garden,  and  she’s 
off  up  the  hill  to  the  wood.  He  must  have  passed  an  hour  ago,  and 
there  was  the  whistle  of  a chaffinch  for  signal.  I heard  her  whistle 
back,  the  deceitful  faggot,  though  she  thought  I was  safe  out  of 
the  way,  and  she’s  been  watching  for  an  opportunity  ever  since. 
Straight  up  the  hill  she  went,  Lee,  not  twenty  minutes  gone.” 

While  Mrs.  Lee  was  speaking,  the  two  men  had  followed  her 
through  the  house,  and  now  stood  in  the  back  garden,  whence  they 
could  see  the  whole  slope  of  the  hill,  with  its  woody  crest  traced 
clear  against  the  blue  midday  sky.  Beneath  this  crest  the  trees 
had  been  cleared  in  a straight,  broad  strip  about  the  breadth  of  the 
little  garden. 

“Look  here,  Ben!  ” cried  Judkins,  seizing  the  arm  of  Lee,  who 
was  striding  rapidly  through  the  garden,  and  was  about  to  ascend 
the  treeless  slope;  “don’t  you  do  nothing  rash,  now.” 

Lee’s  face  was  purple,  and  he  shook  the  younger  man  off  with  a 
muttered  oath,  when  the  latter  once  more  caught  him  by  the  arm, 
and  pointed  upward,  with  a cry. 

“ I knew  it;  I always  knew  it.  The  damned  scoundrel ! ” 

Just  within  the  shadow  of  the  wood,  which  partly  screened 
them,  were  two  figures,  the  inner  and  less  seen  that  of  a woman  in 
dark  winter  clothing ; the  outer,  that  of  a man  in  a suit  of  gray. 
The  light  hazel  twigs  impinged  but  slightly  on  the  latter  figure,  so 
that  its  outline  was  distinctly  seen,  and  the  face  itself  was  even 
visible  sideways  for  a moment.  The  female  figure,  on  the  contrary, 
with  the  face  hidden  in  the  other’s  arm,  and  its  dark  outlines  less 
striking  by  their  color,  could  only  be  guessed  at.  The  vision  lasted 
but  a moment ; the  figures  moved  on  over  the  woodland  path.  The 
hazels  were  denser  there,  and  the  path  turned  into  the  wood,  so 
•that  the  pair  were  gradually  hidden,  and  soon  completely  vanished 
from  sight. 

“I’m  witness,  mind,”  Judkins  muttered,  while  Lee  groaned 
aloud.  “You  and  me  saw  him.  go  through  the  village  this  morning 
in  those  gray  clothes  and  that  hat.” 

So  saying,  the  young  man  turned  and  went  rapidly  back,  avoid- 
ing the  garden,  and  plunging  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees  which 
bordered  it  on  either  side,  while  Lee  toiled  up  the  hill,  lie  had 


106 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


not  gone  far  before  Alma  appeared  at  the  spot  where  the  hazels 
grew  thin,  and  issued  from  the  wood.  She  started  slightly  when 
she  saw  her  father,  but  soon  regained  her  composure,  and  advanced 
toward  him. 

“ What  were  you  doing  in  the  wood  ? ” he  asked  harshly. 

“I  only  went  up  for  a little  fresh  air  this  fine  day,”  she  replied, 
gently. 

“ Went  up  to  hear  the  birds  sing,  perhaps,”  he  continued,  with 
savage  sarcasm. 

“There  are  no  birds  singing  now,”  said  Alma,  sadly.  “Even 
the  robin  is  silent  in  the  frost.” 

“ Ay,  and  the  chaffinch.  Who  were  you  speaking  to  a minute 
ago  ? ” 

“Nobody,”  she  replied,  looking  surprised* 

“ That’s  a damned  lie,  Alma!  ” 

“ I have  spoken  to  no  human  being  but  you  and  mother  this 
w^-ek  past,”  said  Alma,  in  a tone  of  weary  apathy. 

They  had  reached  the  garden  now,  and  Alma  went  in,  scarcely 
hearing  the  imprecation  that  burst  from  her  maddened  father’s  lips. 

Lee  remained  behind  her ; then  re-ascended  the  hill  and  picked 
up  a little  scrap  of  paper  he  had  seen  Alma  tear  in  halves  and  drop 
when  she  thought  herself  unobserved.  He  pieced  it  together,  and 
read,  written  in  a disguised,  backward -slanting  hand,  “ At  dusk 
to-night.  The  old  spot.  Important  ” 

“O  Alma!”  he  cried;  “my  pretty  Alma!  my  only  child!” 
Then  he  turned  back,  his  brow  darkening  as  he  went,  till  the  mo- 
mentary tenderness  was  quite  effaced,  and  he  muttered  fiercely 
beneath  his  breath,  “I’ll  kill  him!  I’ll  kill  him  ! ” 

It  was  late  when  the  unconscious  lovers  reached  home.  The 
bell  was  ringing  for  luncheon,  and  Mark  Antony  was  sifting  on  the 
doorstep,  looking  very  cross  at  his  mistress’s  delay ; for  he  was  a 
cat  of  regular  habits,  and  particularly  disliked  waiting  for  meals. 
He  received  Lilian  rather  distantly,  accepted  Henry’s  caress  with 
haughty  disdain,  and  then  boxed  Snip’s  ears  for  barking  inoppor- 
tunely. 

“ Oh,  I say,  Henry ! ” cried  Lennie,  who  was  bounding  into  the 
dining-room  with  freshed-brushed  hair  and  clean  collar,  “ain’t  you 
in  a mess?  ” 

Henry  had  slipped  on  a damp  bank  by  a stream,  in  trying  to 
gather  some  ivy  colored  crimson  and  gold  for  Lilian,  and  a great 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


107 


brown-and-green  stain  showed  strikingly  on  the  knee  of  his  gray 
suit.  In  two  bounds  he  was  in  his  room,  and  in  three  seconds  out 
of  the  stained  suit  and  into  another,  consisting  of  a black  coat  and 
lower  garments  of  the  same  tone  of  gray  as  those  discarded.  The 
gray  suit  was  folded  neatly  and  placed  on  a chair ; and  he  appeared 
at  the  table  in  less  than  five  minutes  in  that  perfect  neatness  and 
cleanliness  which  so  especially  distinguish  the  English  gentleman. 

No  one  observed  his  change  of  dress,  though  everybody  had 
noticed  the  morning’s  gray  suit.  It  was  rather  light  in  color  for 
the  season,  according  to  the  fashion  of  that  day,  and  had  com- 
mended itself  to  Everard  from  the  sense  of  cleanliness  that  light 
colors  always  afibrded  him.  Lilian,  indeed,  observed  that  the  gray 
coat  was  replaced  by  a black  one,  and,  in  speculating  afterward  on 
the  subject,  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  black  had  prob- 
ably been  assumed  for  indoor  wear,  as  being  cooler  than  the  thick 
frieze. 

Marion  appeared  at  luncheon,  having  dropped  in  on  her  way  to 
Oldport,  where  she  had  errands  in  connection  with  the  New  Year’s 
ball  at  Woodlands.  She  made  a charming  little  face  of  disappoint- 
ment at  the  non-appearance  of  Cyril ; but  the  disappointment  by 
no  means  spoiled  her  appetite,  and  she  kept  them  all  alive  by  her 
sprightly  conversation  and  playful,  endearing  ways.  She  petted 
Mr.  Maitland  in  a most  enchanting  manner ; teased  the  children  and 
the  cat ; was  impertinent  to  Lilian  when  gently  rebuked  for  these 
misdemeanors;  snubbed  her  brother,  according  to  her  usual  custom; 
and  was  very  tender  in  the  little  cares  she  lavished  on  Mrs.  Mait- 
land. Her  vivacity,  and  the  bright,  warm-colored  style  of  her 
beauty,  and  the  aerial  lightness  of  her  form,  made  a good  foil  to 
Lilian’s  repose  and  gentle  dignity,  the  quieter  tones  of  her  coloring, 
and  the  more  majestic  development  of  her  figure. 

Everard  regarded  his  sister  as  a charming  wayward  child,  loved 
her  little  rebellious  ways,  and  put  up  contentedly  with  all  her 
naughtiness.  He  was  six  years  her  senior,  and  had  been  the  young- 
est of  the  family  till  her  birth,  which  cost  their  mother  her  life; 
and  then  the  orphan  baby  became  the  object  of  his  tenderest  care*, 
and  he  soothed  away  his  own  sorrowful  sense  of  orphanhood  by 
hovering  over  the  tiny  sister’s  slumbers,  and  amusing  her  waking 
inomfints  by  all  kinds  of  childish  devices.  It  was  partly  for  the 
baby’s  sake  that  he  was  never  sent  to  school ; partly  also  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  request  of  his  dead  mother,  who  judged,  from  her  expo- 


108 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


rience  of  the  elder  boys,  that  the  benefits  of  public  schools  were 
overbalanced  by  their  contaminations  and  temptations.  All  his  life 
he  had  been  Marion's  devoted  slave,  and,  like  other  despots,  she 
received  his  devotion  with  a satisfaction  not  unmingled  with  con- 
tempt. 

“ What  on  earth  is  Cyril  doing  in  Oldport  all  day  ? ” Marion 
asked.  “ What  business  can  he  possibly  have?  ” 

“Upon  my  word,  I can  not  imagine,’'  replied  Mr.  Maitland,  who 
had  not  considered  the  subject  before. 

And  Marion’s  question  set  Everard  thinking.  Cyril  was  not 
likely  to  make  many  purchases  in  the  little  country  town;  his 
affairs  were  in  the  hands  of  London  lawyers;  he  could  not  want 
money ; he  had  no  friends  there ; in  short,  it  was  very  odd  that  he 
should  spend  the  day  in  a little  market  town  on  business  that  could 
not  be  postponed,  and  so  miss  the  partly  expected  visit  of  Marion. 

Marion,  however,  carried  Mr.  Maitland  off  with  her  after 
luncheon,  on  his  remembering  that  he  had  certain  commissions  to 
execute,  and  Lilian  drove  to  Swaynestone  to  pay  her  long-promised 
call  on  Lady  Swaynestone,  and  advise  her  about  her  charities  ac- 
cording to  her  request.  She  had  a thousand  things  to  do,  and  was 
much  troubled  that  she  could  not  visit  a certain  Widow  Dove,  who 
lived  in  a lonely  cottage  on  the  down,  that  afternoon,  and  carry  her 
a little  present  of  money.  So  Henry,  finding  that  he  could  not  be 
allowed  to  accompany  Lilian  to  Lady  Swaynestone’s  since  the  ladies 
wished  to  discuss  business,  offered  to  be  Lilian’s  almoner,  and  was 
eagerly  accepted. 

He  saw  Lilian  and  the  children  off  in  the  pony -carriage,  and 
then  betook  himself  to  writing  some  letters  in  the  room  called 
Lilian’s;  and,  having  done  this,  he  remembered  that  Lilian  had 
lamented  having  no  time  to  frame  and  hang  the  photograph  of 
Guercino’s  picture,  and  did  this  for  her,  the  frame  having  been 
already  furnished  by  the  village  carpenter. 

In  the  mean  time,  at  about  three  o'clock,  Cyril  appeared  in  the 
drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  Maitland  was  lying  on  her  couch.  He 
had  finished  his  business,  got  some  luncheon  at  Oldport,  and  been 
picked  up  just  out  of  the  town  by  Farmer  Long,  who  drove  him  home 
in  his  gig,  he  said.  Then,  after  ten  minutes’  chat  with  his  mother, 
he  went  to  his  room,  telling  her  that  he  wished  to  get  a sermon 
ready  for  the  next  Sunday,  when  he  was  to  be  at  work  again,  and 
requesting  that  he  might  not  be  disturbed  till  dinner. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


109 


All  this  Mrs.  Maitland  told  Everard,  when  he  looked  into  the 
drawing-room  a few  minutes  later. 

“ I begged  him  to  put  off  his  sermon- writing  till  another  day,” 
she  said,  “ for  he  looked  woefully  haggard  and  weary  ; hut  I could 
not  persuade  him.  He  says  he  feels  so  burdened  until  he  has  got 
his  Sunday’s  sermons  off  his  mind.  Just  like  his  father.  He  always 
does  his  sermons  on  Monday,  if  he  can,  and  feels  a free  man  for  the 
rest  of  the  week.” 

It  is  rather  odd,”  Everard  observed,  “that  Cyril  should  spend 
so  much  time  in  writing  his  sermons;  for  he  is  supposed  to  be  an 
extempore  preacher.” 

“ Last  Sunday's  sermon  was  certainly  extempore,”  his  mother 
replied ; “he  had  some  manuscript,  but  scarcely  referred  to  it  more 
than  once.  I wonder  if  I am  a very  foolish  old  woman,  Henry,  for 
thinking  that  Cyril  has  a really  singular  gift  in  preaching?  His 
voice  appears  to  me  to  be  something  quite  out  of  the  common.  And 
I have  heard  John  Bright’s  oratory,  and  Gladstone’s,  and  D’Israeli’s, 
the  best  preachers  in  our  own  Church,  and  those  brilliant  Roman 
Catholics  who  attracted  such  crowds  to  Notre  Dame.” 

“ 1 think,  Mrs.  Maitland,”  replied  Everard,  who  was  rather  dis- 
traught in  his  manner,  since  he  was  nerving  himself  to  introduce 
the  topic  of  his  engagement,  “that  Cyril  will  be  reckoned  the  great- 
est preacher  in  the  Church  of  England.” 

Then  some  people  called,  and  Everard  made  his  escape  as  soon 
as  he  decently  could,  and  at  about  a quarter  to  four  he  started  on 
his  walk  to  Widow  Dove’s  with  a light  heart.  His  road  was,  as  far 
as  the  wood  above  the  Temple,  the  same  as  that  he  had  pursued  so 
happily  with  Lilian  an  hour  or  two  before,  and  it  filled  him  with 
unspeakable  rapture  to  recall  the  delightful  incidents  in  his  morn- 
ing walk  as  he  went,  so  that  he  was  dreamy  and  unobservant,  and 
scarcely  spoke  to  the  people  he  met  on  his  solitary  ramble,  a thing 
very  unusual  with  him. 

The  sun  was  declining  redly  and  with  great  pomp  of  cloud 
scenery  in  the  west — a glorious  ending,  he  thought,  of  the  happiest 
of  happy  years ; and  that  was  the  only  clew  he  had  to  the  time  of 
his  starting,  when  referring  in  memory  to  this  fatal  walk,  since  he 
omitted,  in  his  dreamy  abstraction,  to  look  at  his  watch,  though  he 
was  naturally  so  precise  in  his  habits,  and  had  such  a keen  sense  of 
the  passage  of  time. 

When  he  reached  Widow  Dove’s  lonely  dwelling,  he  found  it 


110 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


cold  and  dark,  tke  door  shut,  and  no  smoke  issuing  from  the  chim- 
ney ; the  widow  and  her  daughter  were  evidently  gone  away  for  a 
day  or  two.  He  felt  a sort  of  eerie  shiver  at  the  darkness  and  gloom 
of  the  solitary  homestead,  though  he  little  dreamed  that  his  fate  or 
the  fate  of  those  he  loved  could  be  influenced  by  a circumstance  so 
trifling  as  the  emptiness  of  a secluded  cottage. 

Then  he  turned  his  face  homeward  in  the  gathering  dusk,  choos- 
ing another  way  from  that  by  which  he  came,  by  that  strange 
fatality  which  pursues  doomed  men,  and  strode  gayly  and  swiftly 
along  over  the  open  down,  every  dimple  and  hollow  of  which  were 
familiar  to  him  from  boyhood.  Some  stars  were  out  now,  spark- 
ling keenly  in  the  clear,  frosty  sky,  in  which  the  moon  had  not  yet 
risen.  Over  hedge  and  ditch,  and  through  copses,  and  round  plan- 
tations Everard  sped  blithely,  until  he  approached  the  high-road 
leading  to  Malbourne.  Here  his  pace  slackened,  and  he  listened 
carefully  for  the  sound  of  Long’s  wagon-hells,  which  he  thought 
would  carry  far  in  the  frosty  stillness. 

But  there  was  no  repetition  of  the  fairy  peals  which  rang  so 
blithely  in  the  morning,  and  he  got  as  far  as  the  wheelwright’s  corner 
without  having  heard  them.  Grove,  the  wagoner,  was  to  bring 
him  a parcel  from  Oldport,  a little  parcel  that  he  feared  might  he 
forgotten  if  he  did  not  intercept  it.  Here  he  met  Granfer,  toiling 
slowly  along  on  his  way  to  spend  the  evening  at  Hale’s,  whose  wife 
was  one  of  his  numerous  descendants.  Had  Granfer  heard  the  team 
goby?  he  asked. 

“Ho,  I ain’t  a yeard  ’em  since  this  marning,  zo  to  zay ; not  as  I 
knows  on,  Dr.  Everard,”  Granfer  replied,  with  his  usual  circumlo- 
cution. “ I ’lows  I yeared  ’em’s  marning,  zure  enough.  They  was 
a-gwine  into  Oldport,  as  I hreckons,  as  you  med  zay  zumwheres 
about  noon  or  thereabouts.  Ho,  I ’lows  I ain’t  a-yeared  nor  a hell 
zince  that  there ; not  as  I knows  on,  I ain’t.” 

After  some  further  conversation,  Everard  strolled  slowly  on  in 
the  direction  of  Long’s  farm,  full  of  anxiety  about  his  precious 
packet,  which  he  knew  would  fade.  Hear  Long's  he  heard  that  the 
team  had  returned  some  time  before,  and  his  packet  had  been  sent 
to  the  Rectory. 

Striking  across  the  fields,  he  returned  in  the  deepening  night, 
without  going  through  the  village,  and,  meeting  with  a little  delay 
in  consequence  of  an  old  gap  having  been  recently  stopped  in  a 
fence— a good  stiff  bullfinch — he  gained  the  Rectory  at  about  six 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


111 


o’clock,  thus  missing,  to  his  disgust,  the  charmed  hour  of  tea. 
There,  when  he  entered,  was  the  precious  little  box  on  the  hall 
table,  and  he  caught  it  up,  and  was  going  to  unfasten  it  in  his  room, 
when  Winnie  waylaid  him  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  eager  for  a 
romp,  which  romp  resulted  in  Winnie,  while  being  tossed  high  in 
air,  throwing  back  her  head  and  striking  him  a tremendous  blow  in 
the  eye  with  it,  so  that  he  set  her  hastily  down  with  an  exclamation 
of  pain,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  face. 

‘‘  You’ve  done  it  now,  Winnie  ; blinded  me,”  he  said. 

“ Oh,  Henry,  I am  so  sorry ! ” sobbed  W'innie.  “ And  they 
won’t  let  me  go  to  Long’s  tea-party  to-morrow ; it  was  only  on 
Sunday  I made  Ingram  Swaynestone’s  nose  bleed,” 

“ never  mind,  darling,”  said  Everard,  kissing  and  soothing  her; 
“ it  was  not  your  fault  at  all.” 

Then  he  promised  to  let  no  one  know  of  his  black  eye,  and  to 
do  his  best  to  cure  it ; to  which  intent  he  procured  raw  meat  from 
the  kitchen,  and  went  to  his  room,  taking  Winnie  with  him  to  help 
him  unpack  the  parcel,  which  contained  some  choice  white  flowers. 
These  he  bid  the  child  take  to  her  sister  at  once,  while  he  shut  him- 
self up,  and  tried  to  subdue  the  rising  inflammation  in  the  bruised 
eye  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 

He  was  anxious  to  avoid  such  an  ornament  as  a black  eye  on  his 
own  account,  as  well  as  the  child’s,  since  a black  eye  does  not  im- 
prove a man’s  appearance  at  a ball,  nor  is  it  in  keeping  with  popular 
ideas  of  a newly  accepted  lover.  So  he  doctored  himself  till  it  was 
time  to  get  ready  for  dinner,  and  then,  seeing  the  gray  suit  lie  on 
the  chair  as  he  had  placed  it  in  the  morning,  he  sponged  the  green 
stain  away  from  it.  Scarcely  had  he  done  this  when  he  saw  other 
stains,  some  still  wet,  and,  procuring  some  fresh  water,  sponged 
these  also.  The  water  was  red  when  he  finished. 

‘‘Blood,”  he  thought,  being  well  used  to  such  stains.  “Did  I 
cut  myself  anywhere,  I wonder?” 

He  did  not,  however,  waste  much  thought  on  this  trivial  inci- 
dent, but  sponged  the  garments  clean  in  his  tidy  way,  and  left  the 
crimsoned  water  in  the  basin,  where  it  subsequently  gave  Martha, 
the  housemaid,  what  she  described  as  a turn.  Then  he  made  his 
appearance  in  the  drawing-room,  carefully  avoiding  the  lights,  and 
gave  rather  a lame  account  of  himself  since  his  return  from  the 
fruitless  errand  to  the  Widow  Dove’s.  He  was  rewarded  for  his 
labor  on  Lilian’s  behalf,  by  the  sweetest  smile  in  the  world,  and  was 
8 


112 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


enchanted  to  observe  at  dinner  that  Lilian  wore  one  of  the  white 
roses  from  his  bouquet  in  her  dress. 

Cyril  did  not  appear  at  dinner ; he  sent  word  that  one  of  his  had 
headaches  had  come  on,  and  begged  that  he  might  be  undisturbed 
for  the  nighto 

“Poor  dear  Cyril!”  said  Lilian;  “it  is  so  hard  for  a man  to 
have  headaches.  His  are  like  mine ; nothing  but  quiet  heals  them.’'" 
“Their  very  headaches  are  twins,”  Mr.  Maitland  observed. 
“Why,  Henry,”  he  added,  “what  have  you  done  to  your  eye? 
You  appear  to  have  been  in  the  wars,  man.” 

Winnie,  who  was  standing  by  the  tire,  here  threw  an  imploring 
glance  at  Henry,  and  completely  scattered  what  few  talents  he  had 
ever  possessed  for  dissimulation, 

“ I — I — I knocked  my  head  against  something  in  the  dark,”  he 
stammered ; “ I — it  was  purely  accidental.” 

“What  a nasty  blow?”  said  Lilian,  observing  it;  “you  will 
have  a black  eye.  What  a pity ! Ah,  sir  1 perhaps  that  accounts 
for  your  rudeness  to  me  this  evening.” 

“My  rudeness,  Lilian?  What  can  you  mean?  ” asked  Henry. 
“Yes,  your  incivility  to  me,  and  also  to  Mark  Antony,  who  was 
actually  doing  you  the  honor  of  running  to  meet  you — the  haughty 
Mark  himself.  Think  of  that  1 ” 

“ I can  only  apologize  to  both  with  the  deepest  humility,”  he 
replied,  stroking  the  petted  animal,  who  was  dining  with  his  usual 
urbane  condescension  at  Lilian’s  side ; “ but  indeed  I am  quite  inno- 
cent, having  seen  neither  you  nor  puss  since  you  started  for  Swayne- 
stone.” 

Then  Lilian  told  how  at  tea-time,  on  passing  from  the  back  re- 
gions toward  the  drawing-room,  accompanied  by  her  usual  body- 
guard, Mark  Antony,  she  had  seen  Henry  run  across  the  back  hall 
toward  the  staircase;  had  called  to  him  about  Widow  Dove’s  com- 
mission ; while  the  cat,  with  a mew  of  delight,  had  bounded  after 
him.  He  had  rushed  on,  however,  in  the  dusk,  a gray,  ghost-like 
figure,  and  flitted  up  the  stairs  to  his  room,  followed  by  Mark,  whom 
he  expelled  ignominiously,  shutting  the  door  after  him. 

“ You  must  be  under  some  delusion,”  replied  Henry,  utterly 
confounded.  “ I saw  no  cat  when  I came  in.” 

“It  was  growing  very  dark,”  Lilian  said,  “and  Martha  was  late 
in  lighting  the  hall-lamp  to-night,  for  which,  indeed,  I afterward 
rebuked  her.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


113 


“ The  lamps  were  lighted — ” Henry  began,  and  then  stopped  at 
the  sight  of  Winnie,  who  was  gesticulating  in  an  agonized  manner 
behind  her  mother's  chair.  “ This  sounds  extremely  ghost-like,”  he 
added  ; I hope  it  bodes  me  no  misfortune.  It  must  have  been  my 
wraith,  Lilian.” 

“ It  sounds  rather  eerie,  certainly,”  interposed  Mr.  Maitlando 
Lilian  dear,  I hope  you  are  not  going  to  take  to  seeing  people’s 
wraiths.  It  gives  me  the  most  fearful  jumps  to  think  of,” 

‘‘  I am  creeping  from  head  to  foot,’’  added  Mrs.  Maitland,  laugh- 
ing ; “and  on  the  last  night  of  the  year,  too.  Dr.  Everard,  what 
prescriptions  have  you  for  young  ladies  who  take  to  ghost-seeing  ? ” 
“I  am  going  to  ask  you  for  another  cutlet,  sir.  My  appetite  will 
convince  you  that  I,  at  least,  am  no  illusion,  but  a substantial  reali- 
ty,” said  Henry,  instead  of  replying. 

“ There  never  was  any  deception  about  you,  Harry  lad,”  returned 
Mr.  Maitland,  cordially ; “ you  were  always  real.” 

The  evening  which  ensued  ought  to  have  been  very  happy,  but 
somehow  it  was  not.  A vague  uneasiness  was  in  the  air;  Cyril’s 
absence  created  a void  in  the  family  party,  and  the  children,  who 
were  permitted  to  stay  up  for  the  New  Year,  grew  tired,  and  con- 
sequently tiresome.  Mr.  Maitland,  when  he  recovered  from  his 
after-dinner  nap,  which  was  unusually  long,  read  them  one  of 
Dickens’s  Christmas  tales,  and  although  it  was  pleasant  to  Henry  to 
sit  by  Lilian  and  watch  her  beautiful  white  hands  at  their  busy  task 
of  embroidering  some  silken  flowers,  he  was  not  sorry  when,  the 
servants  having  been  assembled  in  the  drawing-room,  a pleasant 
clinking  of  glasses  was  heard,  and,  the  usual  ceremonies  of  toasting 
and  hand-shaking  gone  through,  the  bells  began  drowsily  chiming 
the  Old  Year  out  from  the  belfry  hard  by. 

They  all  went  into  the  hall  then,  Mr.  Maitland  opened  the  door 
wide  to  let  the  New  Year  in,  and  Lilian  and  Henry,  hand-in-hand, 
gazed  trustfully  out  into  the  starry  sky  to  meet  it,  their  hearts  full 
of  the  sweetest  hopes. 

When  Henry  went  to  his  room  soon  after,  he  could  not  refrain 
from  opening  Cyril’s  door,  which  adjoined  his  own,  and  just  look- 
ing in,  thinking  he  might  be  asleep.  He  pushed  the  door  very 
softly,  and  introduced  his  head.  Only  a faint  light  was  burning 
from  one  candle,  and  by  this  dim  ray  he  saw  Cyril  kneeling  half- 
dressed  before  a picture  of  the  Cruciflxion.  His  face  was  hidden  in 
his  hands,  and  he  was  sobbing  in  a low,  suppressed  way. 


114 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


Henry  shut  the  door  softly,  and  stealthily  withdrew,  vexed  at 
his  own  intrusion.  “ That  is  not  the  way  to  cure  the  headache,”  he 
mused,  half  awed  at  the  manner  in  which  the  young  priest  received 
the  New  Year.  Yet  who  could  venture  to  say  that  watching  and 
fasting  and  tearful  contrition  were  not  eminently  fitting,  in  one  set 
apart  for  holy  functions,  at  such  a season?  I wonder,”  Everard 
continued  to  speculate,  what  infinitesimal  peccadilloes  the  poor 
lad  is  mourning  with  all  that  expenditure  of  nervous  * energy  ? ” 
Then  he  thought  of  his  own  weaknesses  and  shortcomings,  and  felt 
pitchy  black  in  contrast  with  a soul  so  white. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  wheelwright’s  house  stood  just  on  the  crest  of  the  steep 
little  hill  which  carries  the  pilgrim  down  into  the  village  of  Mal- 
bourne  with  a rapid  acceleration  of  pace,  and  which  ends  where  the 
four  roads  meet.  The  Sun  Inn  stands  at  one  corner,  facing  the 
incoming  pilgrim  cheerfully  on  its  left;  and  opposite  this  tidy 
hostelry  stands  a sign-post  apparently  waving  four  gaunt  arms  dis- 
tractedly, and  seeming  to  bid  the  wayfarer  pause  beneath  the 
thatched  roof  of  the  little  inn,  whether  his  journey’s  end  he  onward 
over  the  high-road,  or  oblige  him  to  turn  aside  through  the  village 
by  church  and  Rectory. 

On  the  traveler’s  right,  facing  him,  is  a cottage,  and  facing  that 
is  the  wheelwright’s  yard,  full  of  timber,  and  wagons  half  built  or 
broken.  The  wheelwright’s  dwelling,  standing  above  the  grassy 
yard,  commands  a fine  view  of  the  village  nestled  under  the  down, 
and  the  sweeping  parklands  of  Northover  on  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  looks  over  an  undulating  landscape  to  the  sea.  It  is  a cheery 
little  house,  pleasantly  shaded  by  a couple  of  shapely  lindens  in  front, 
and  close  to  the  high-road,  upon  which  its  front  windows  and  deep- 
timbered  porch  give. 

On  New  Year’s  Eve  the  wheelwright’s  windows  were  all  lighted 
up,  and  there  was  even  a lantern  at  the  little  front  wicket,  which 
gazed  out  like  a friendly  eye,  as  if  to  bid  people  enter  and  make 
merry  within,  and  threw  a yellow  fan-shaped  radiance  on  the  steep 
road  without.  The  porch  door  was  open,  and  disclosed  a passage 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


115 


lighted  by  a candle  in  a tin  sconce  adorned  with  holly.  On  one 
side,  an  open  door  revealed  the  chill  dignities  of  the  best  parlor, 
which  not  even  a blazing  fir^  and  abundance  of  holly -berries  could 
quite  warm. 

On  a hair-cloth  sofa  in  this  state  apartment  sat  Mrs.  Hale,  of 
Malbourne  Mill,  and  Mrs.  Wax,  the  schoolmiaster’s  wife,  both  ex- 
ceedingly upright,  and  both  holding  a handkerchief  of  Gargantuan 
dimensions  over  the  hands  they  crossed  in  their  laps.  Opposite,  in 
a horse-hair  arm-chair,  sat  an  elderly  lady  in  a plum-colored  silk 
gown,  gold  chain,  and  a splendid  cap,  also  very  upright,  and  also 
holding  a Gargantuan  handkerchief.  This  was  Mrs.  Gave,  the  wife 
of  a small  farmer  in  the  neighborhood. 

Each  lady’s  face  wore  a resigned  expression,  mingled  with  the 
calm  exultation  natural  to  people  who  know  themselves  to  be  the. 
most  aristocratic  persons  in  a social  gathering.  Each  realized  that 
Wurde  hat  Burde.,  and  felt  herself  equai  to  the  occasion;  each 
paused,  before  making  or  replying  to  an  observation,  to  consider 
the  most  genteel  subjects  of  conversation,  and  the  most  genteel 
language  in  which  to  clothe  them. 

“Remorkably  fine  weather  for  the  time  of  year,  ladies,”  ob- 
served Mrs.  Hale,  soothing  her  soul  by  the  pleasant  rustle  her  shot- 
silk  gown  made  when  she  smoothed  it,  and  regretting  that  her  gold 
chain  was  not  so  new-fashioned  as  Mrs.  Cave’s ; while,  on  the  other 
hand,  she  experienced  a delicious  comfort  in  meditating  on  the 
superiority  of  her  brooch,  which  was  a large  flat  pebble  in  a gold 
frame. 

“Indeed,  mem,  it  is  most  seasonable,  though  trying  for  delicate 
chestes,”  returned  Mrs.  Cave,  with  her  finest  company  smile,  after 
which  a pause  of  three  minutes  ensued. 

“ Some  say  the  frost  is  on  the  breek,”  continued  Mrs.  Hale, 
wondering  if  it  would  be  genteel  to  ask  Mrs.  Cave  how  much  her 
cap  cost.  She  had  an  agonized  suspicion  that  it  would  not. 

After  five  minutes,  Mrs.  Wax,  whose  comparative  youth  and 
lower  rank  occasioned  her  some  diffidence,  took  up  her  parable  in 
the  following  genteel  manner : “ Her  ladyship  was  observing  this 
marning — ” 

But  what  her  ladyship  was  observing  was  never  revealed  to  man, 
since  at  that  moment  Widow  Hale,  the  host’s  mother,  came  burst- 
ing in,  stout,  healthy,  and  red-faced,  her  cap  slightly  awry,  and 
called  out  in  her  hearty,  wholesome  voice — 


116 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


“ Well,  now,  mj  dears,  and  how  are  you  getting  on?  I’m  that 
harled  up  with  so  many  about,  I ain’t  had  a minute  to  ast  after  ye 
all.  Mary  Ann,  my  dear,  give  me  a kiss  do,  and  a hearty  welcome 
to  you  all,  and  a kiss  all  round,  and  do  make  yourselves  at  home. 
Now,  is  the  tea  to  your  liking?  This  best  tea-pot  ain’t  much  at 
drawing.  I ain’t  much  of  a one  for  best  things  myself;  well 
enough  for  looking  at,  and  just  to  say  you’ve  got  them,  but  give  me 
work-a-day  things  for  comfort.  There  ain’t  above  half  the  com- 
pany come  yet,  and  Mary  Ann  upset  about  the  pies  for  supper.  Do 
just  as  you  would  at  home,  and  you  will 'please  me.  If  there  ain’t 
dear  old  Granfer  coming  in,  bless  his  heart  1 Come  in,  Granfer, 
and  kindly  welcome.” 

And  so  saying,  the  kind  soul  bustled  out,  and  relieved  Granfer 
of  his  hat,  while  her  daughter-in-law,  the  actual  hostess,  came  to  do 
the  honors  of  the  best  parlor,  bringing  m three  more  female  guests 
of  distinction,  who  were  much  awed  by  the  appalling  gentility  of 
the  three  already  assembled,  and  a little  inclined  to  regret  their  own 
social  importance. 

Granfer  and  the  widow,  in  the  mean  time,  entered  the  great 
kitchen,  a long,  low,  whitewashed  room  with  heavy  beams  across 
the  ceiling,  a stone  floor,  and  a wide  hearth  with  a wood  fire  burn- 
ing between  dogs  upon  it.  The  ceiling  and  walls  wore  their  every- 
day decoration  of  hams,  guns,  a spit,  various  cooking  utensils,  a tiny 
bookshelf,  and  a large  dresser  well  garnished  with  crockery  and 
pewters,  together  with  their  festal  Christmas  adorning  of  holly,  fir, 
and  mistletoe,  and  a round  dozen  of  tin  sconces  bearing  tallow 
candles.  There  was  an  oaken  settle  on  one  side  the  chimney  cor- 
ner, in  the  coziest  nook  of  which  Granfer  deposited  his  bent  form 
Avith  a sigh  of  content,  and  gazed  round  upon  the  assembled  guests 
with  benevolence. 

On  a long  table  on  trestles  at  one  end  of  the  room  was  spread  a 
solid  meal,  consisting  of  a huge  ham,  own  brother  to  those  depend- 
ing in  rich  brown  abundance  from  the  ceiling;  a south-country 
skim  milk  cheese,  finely  marbled  with  greenish  blue  veins,  and  re- 
sembling Stilton  in  reduced  circumstances;  a great  yellow  and 
brown  mass  of  roast  beef  ; a huge  pie  ; several  big  brown  blocks  of 
plum-cake ; and  some  vast  loaves  of  white  home- baked  bread  and 
pats  of  fresh  butter.  The  forks  were  of  steel,  and  black-handled 
like  the  knives  ; and  the  spoons,  of  which  there  was  a dearth,  were 
pewter.  A deficiency  of  tea-cups  suggested  to  Corporal  Tom  Hale 


THE  SILENCE  OF  LEAN  MAITLAND. 


117 


the  agreeable  expedient  of  sharing  one  between  a lady  and  a gen- 
tleman, which  was  hailed  with  applause  by  his  naval  brother,  and 
immediately  acted  upon. 

For  those  guests  who  looked  upon  tea  as  an  enervating  beverage, 
there  was  ample  provision  in  the  shape  of  various  brown  and  yellow 
jugs  filled  with  ale  from  the  cask  Tom  and  Jim  had  procured  for 
the  occasion  ; and  it  was  generally  understood  that  liquor  of  a still 
more  comforting  nature  was  held  in  reserve  to  stimulate  convivi- 
ality at  a later  hour.  The  blacksmith,  Straun,  the  clerk,  Stevens, 
with  their  wives  and  families,  were  there  ; also  Baines,  the  discon- 
tented tailor,  and  the  husbands  of  the  best-parlor  ladies. 

The  wheelwright’s  wife,  a comely  woman  of  thirty,  and  his  sis- 
ter, a blooming  damsel  some  ten  years  younger,  ran  to  and  fro  with 
flushed  faces  among  the  guests,  while  the  widow  made  herself 
ubiquitous. 

The  uniforms  of  Tom  and  Jim,  with  those  of  three  or  four  artil- 
lerymen from  the  neighboring  forts,  and  the  red  coats  of  a couple 
of  linesmen,  together  with  the  bright  ribbons  of  the  W’omen,  lent 
color  and  variety  to  the  monotony  of  black  coats  and  smock-frocks, 
and  upon  the  whole  the  wheelwright’s  kitchen  presented  as  cheery 
and  animated  a sight  as  one  wmuld  wish  to  see  on  a Kew  Year’s 
Eve.  Nor  was  a town  element  wanting  in  the  rustic  gathering ; for 
just  as  tea  was  in  full  swing,  and  little  Dickie  Stevens — whose  tea 
lay  in  the  future,  after  the  serving  of  his  elders — was  supplying  the 
place  of  a band  by  playing  hymn-tunes  on  his  concertina,  a taxed- 
cart  drove  up  and  deposited  two  chilled  mortals  from  Oldport,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wells,  green-grocers,  and  related,  by  some  inextricable 
family  complications  known  only  in  that  remote  south-country  dis- 
trict, more  or  less  to  nearly  all  the  company. 

Tea  being  finished,  pipes  were  produced,  also  ale,  and  there  was 
wild  work  in  a dimly  lighted  quarter  of  the  kitchen,  where  the  Hale 
brothers  had  cunningly  arranged  unexpected  mistletoe,  and  whence 
smothered  shrieks  of  laughter  and  sounds  as  of  ears  being  vigorously 
boxed  issued  every  now  and  then. 

The  odd  part  about  the  mistletoe  business  was  the  extreme  gulli- 
bility of  the  ladies,  who  were  by  far  too  guileless  to  profit  by  the  ex- 
perience of  others  in  that  dangerous  region,  and  suffered  themselves 
to  be  decoyed  thither  on  the  flimsiest  pretexts,  and  betrayed  the 
utmost  surprise  and  indignation  at  the  kissing  which  invariably 
ensued.  As  for  Tom  and  Jim,  they  went  to  work  with  a business- 


118 


THE  SILENCE  OF  LEAN  MAlTt  \kh, 


like  determination  to  kiss  every  girl  in  the  room,  and  several  re- 
spectable matrons  into  the  bargain.  It  was  about  this  time  that  the 
artillery  sergeant  and  the  wheelwright’s  pretty  sister  Patty  vanished, 
and  were  subsequently  discovered  at  the  front  door,  enjoying  the 
soft  December  breeze  and  studying  astronomy,  a study  which  pro- 
duced the  happiest  subsequent  results,  and  set  the  Malbourne  bells 
chiming  in  the  spring  of  the  coming  year. 

So  large  and  successful  a party  had  not  been  held  in  Malbourne 
for  many  a year,  the  predominance  of  the  military  element  greatly 
contributing  to  its  success;  for  the  sons  of  Mars  excelled  not  only 
in  the  art  of  pleasing  the  fairer  sex,  which  has’ in  all  ages  been  con- 
sidered their  special  function,  but  possessed  many  other  accomplish- 
ments, of  social  value.  A very  pretty  bit  of  fencing  was  exhibited 
between  a red  and  a blue  coat,  and  Corporal  Tom  snuffed  candles 
with  a pistol,  amid  shrieks  of  terrified  delight  from  the  women. 
One  soldier  sang  a comic,  another  a sentimental,  song;  and  when 
little  Dick  Stevens  was  perched  on  a table,  and  warbled  out, 
‘'Rosalie,  the  Prairie  Flower,”  and  “ Wait  for  the  Wagon,”  to  the 
accompaniment  of  Wax’^  clarionet  and  Baines’s  violin,  the  kitchen 
ceiling  trembled  and  threatened  to  drop  its  quivering  hams  and 
hollies  at  the  powerful  chorus  furnished  by  these  stalwart  warriors, 
and  the  gentility  of  the  best  parlor  was  finally  melted  by  it  to  such 
a deliquescence  as  to  mingle  freely  with  the  vulgar  currents  circu- 
lating in  the  kitchen. 

Indeed,  village  talent  was  quite  in  the  shade  during  the  first 
part  of  the  evening,  and  the  discreet  Corporal  Tom  observed  such 
depreciation  on  the  faces  of  the  village  genuises  that  he  resolved  to 
put  off  asking  for  the  recitation  with  which  he  knew  a certain  war- 
rior to  be  primed  Imtil  a later  hour,  and  created  a diversion  by  pro. 
posing  a game  of  Turn  the  Trencher,  w^hich  absorbed  the  children 
and  younger  people  at  one  end  of  the  room,  and  left  the  circle  of 
elders  round  the  chimney  free  to  converse  or  visit  the  best  parlor, 
where  fruit  and  sherry  wine  were  laid  out,  as  they  pleased. 

“ I seen  young  Mr.  Maitland  in  Oldport  to  day,”  observed  the 
town  green-grocer’s  lady,  one  of  the  fireside  circle,  by  way  of  fur- 
nishing the  town  news  to  her  rustic  friends. 

‘'Now,  did  you,  Mrs.  Wells?”  returned  her  host.  “Ah!  so 
you  zeen  he?  ” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Hale;  I seen  him  go  into  the  bank  opposite,  and  stay 
there — oh!  I should  think  a good  hour,”  continued  Mrs.  Wells,  ad' 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


119 


justing  her  cap-ribbons  with  a complacent  sense  of  their  splendor. 
“He's  grown  more  personable  than  ever;  but  he  do  look  ill,  poor 
young  gentleman,  to  be  sure — that  white  and  thin ! ” 

“That’s  livipg  in  Lunuun,”  said  Hale;  “Lunnun  takes  it  out  of 
a man.  I never  held  with  going  to  Lunnun  myself.  Never  knowed 
any  good  come  of  it.” 

“Ah,  you  don’t  know  everythink,  Jacob  Hale!”  said  Granfer, 
benevolently.  “ ’Tain’t,  zo  to  zay,  nateral  to  a man  as  gives  hisself 
entirely  to  wheels.  You  doos  your  best,  but  more  zense  can’t  come 
out  of  ye  than  the  Almighty  have  a put  in.  Na-a.  You  don’t  know 
everythink,  Jacob  Hale,  I zays.” 

The  profundity  of  this  remark  produced  a deep  impression,  par- 
ticularly upon  the  wheelwright,  who  appeared  to  think  he  had  re- 
ceived a great  compliment  from  Granfer,  and  rekindled  his  pipe  at 
the  burning  gorse  on  the  hearth  with  a beatified  air. 

“ Zeems  as  though  zummat  had  been  a-taking  of  it  out  of  Mr. 
Cyril,”  observed  the  blacksmith,  thoughtfully. 

“’Tain’t,  zo  to  zay,  Lunnon,  Jarge  Straun,”  replied  Granfer, 
solemnly.  “No,  Jarge  Straun;  ’tain’t  Lunnon,  as  you  med  zay. 
I zes  to  Bill  Stevens ’s  marning,  I zays,  ‘ Bill,’  I zays,  zays  I,  ‘ brains 
is  the  matter  wi’  Mr.  Cyril,’  I zays,  ‘that’s  what’s  the  matter  wi’ 
he  ’ ” ; and  Granfer’s  keen  gray  eyes  took  a survey  of  all  the  listen- 
ing, stolid  faces,  and  he  experienced  a keen  sense  of  enjoyment,  as 
he  leant  forward,  his  hands  crossed  on  his  staff,  and  felt  that  he 
was  getting  into  regular  conversational  swing.  “ Ay,  that’s  what  I 
zed,  zure  enough,”  he  added. 

“Brains!”  repeated  Straun,  thoughtfully.  “ I never  yeared  of 
nobody  dying  of  brains,  as  I knows  on.” 

“You  ain’t  a yeared  everythink,  Jarge  Straun,”  returned  Gran- 
fer, severely.  “ Ay,  you  med  mark  my  words,  it  all  hruns  to  brains 
wi’  Mr.  Cyril ; there  ain’t,  as  you  med  zay,  nothing  left  to  hrun  to 
vlesh  and  vat,  whatever  he  med  put  inside  of  hisself.  Mankind  is 
like  the  vlower  o’  the  vield : where  it  all  hruns  to  vlower,  there 
ain’t,  zo  to  zay,  zo  much  leaf  as  you  med  swear  by ; then,  agen,  1 
tell  ’ee,'  where  it  all  runs  to  leaf,  you  can’t  expect  no  vlower  to 
speak  on.  Look  at  brocoli ! ” 

Here  Granfer,  being  fairly  launched,  struck  out  from  personal  to 
general  observations,  and  thence,  at  the  prompting  of  his  grandson, 
io  tbe  hoary  regions  of  history. 

“ Ay,  I minds  Boney,  to  be  zure — well  I minds  he  ” ; and  he  re< 


120 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


lated  the  oft-told  tale  of  the  frequent  scares  the  inhabitants  of  those 
coasts  received,  sometimes  by  authentic  rumors  of  Bonaparte’s  ap- 
pearance at  sea,  sometimes  by  the  accidental  or  mistaken  kindling 
of  the  beacons  on  every  prominent  headland  and  on  the  downs, 
where  a watch  was  kept  day  and  night  for  the  appearance  of  the 
dreaded  foe. 

He  told  how  the  wealthy  farmers  sent  their  silver  and  other 
valuables,  sometimes  including  even  their  women  and  children 
under  the  latter  head,  inland  for  safety — most  of  them,  apparently, 
having  first  consulted  Granfer  on  the  subject — in  consequence  of 
Bonaparte’s  rumored  descents  on  that  fated  coast ; also  of  the  rous- 
ing of  the  volunteers  at  the  dead  of  night  on  one  of  these  occasions 
— of  their  march  to  the  sea-shore,  and  their  all  getting  lost  on  the 
w^ay,  and  arriving  next  morning  on  a scene  of  profound  peace. 
Then  came  the  great  smuggler  story,  and  the  tragic  history  of  the 
loss  of  the  ship  Halifax,,  the  crew  and  passengers  of  which  lay 
buried  in  the  wind-swept  churchyard  near  the  fatal  shore  which 
wrecked  them.  Five  young  women  were  among  those  washed 
ashore  and  subsequently  buried,  and  their  appearance,  as  Granfer 
saw  them,  lying  pale  and  beautiful  side  by  side  awaiting  burial,  was 
the  climax  of  this  story  ; after  delivering  it  he  usually  paused  and 
looked  round  for  some  moments  with  working  lips  to  enjoy  the 
silence  of  the  interested  listeners. 

Having  thus  got  his  audience,  which  consisted  mainly  of  village 
seniors,  well  in  hand,  Granfer  began,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
young  people’s  continuous  laughter,  somewhat  softened  by  distance, 
to  play  upon  their  love  of  the  marvelous  and  the  horrible,  and  pro- 
duced some  delightful  creeps  by  his  eerie  tales;  and  finally  landed 
himself  in  his  renowned  narrative  of  his  midnight  adventure  upon 
Down  End,  a bleak,  storm-stricken  eminence  where  the  last  man 
gibbeted  in  these  parts,  a truculent  villain,  with  a most  romantic 
liistory,  then  swung  in  chains. 

Granfer  had  been  belated  on  a moonless,  cloudy  night,  had  wan- 
dered far  in  the  cutting,  wind,  and  had  begun  to  guess  that  he  had 
at  last  done  with  the  downs,  and  reached  the  well-known  Down 
End — an  unpleasant  spot  for  a midnight  stroll,  since,  besides  the 
unwelcome  presence  of  the  murderer  on  his  gibbet,  an  extensive 
chalk  quarry  there  supplied  an  array  of  little  precipices  high  enough 
to  cost  one  slipping  over  the  edge  his  life. 

Granfer  had  arrived  at  a vague  mass  looming  through  the  dark- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


121 


ness,  a dim  something,,  which  he  conjectured  to  be  the  sign-post,  an 
erection  which  shared  the  same  eminence  with  the  gibbet  at  many 
yards  distance  from  it,  and  was  about  to  strike\a  light  with  the  flint 
and  steel  in  his  pocket  to  a weird  accompaniment  of  shrieks  and 
moans  and  unholy  riot  of  clankings  and  hissings,  which  might  be 
only  the  voices  of  the  midnight  storm,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  might 
he  what  Granfer  wisely  left  to  his  hearers’  imaginations,  when  “ all 
on  a zuddent  there  comes  a girt  bang  on  the  shoulders  of  me, 
vlint  and  steel  vlies  out  of  my  hands,  and  down  I goos,  vlat  as  a 
vlounder  on  my  vaace,  wi’  zummat  atop  o’  me,”  the  old  man  was 
saying,  his  wrinkled  face  and  keen  eyes  lighted  by  the  blazing  gorse 
fire  and  his  own  imagination,  while  Straun  and  Hale,  and  the  other 
worthies,  with  open  mouths,  staring  eyes,  and  dropped  pipes,  and 
the  women,  with  various  contortions  of  visage  and  extensive  clasping 
of  shivering  hands,  gazed  with  tense,  strained  attention  upon  the 
withered,  eager  countenance,  when  the  door  burst  open,  and  Will- 
iam Grove,  supported  by  Corporal  Tom,  staggered  into  the  kitchen, 
white-faced  and  trembling,  and  fell  into  a chair  placed  for  him 
in  the  center  of  the  room,  clapping  his  hands  convulsively  upon 
his  knees,  and  exclaiming  at  intervals,  “ Oh,  Lard ! O Lard  ’a 
massey ! ” and  the  sudden  apparition,  coming  thus  upon  strained 
nerves  and  excited  imaginations,  produced  a most  alarming 
effect. 

The  women  screamed  and  clung  to  one  another ; the  men  uttered 
ejaculations ; the  game  of  Turn  the  Trencher  broke  up  in  dismay, 
and  the  players  came  clustering  round  the  distracted  Grove  ; while 
the  services  of  the  military  were  called  into  requisition  to  soothe 
the  terrors  and  agitations  of  the  prettiest  girls,  the  gallant  sergeant 
finding  it  necessary  to  place  his  arm  round  the  blooming  form  of 
Miss  Patty  Hale  for  the  distressed  damsel’s  support. 

“ Lard  ’a  massey ! Willum  Grove,”  exclaimed  Granfer  at  last, 
with  impatience,  ‘‘  if  you  ain’t  got  nothink  better  to  say  than  Lard 
’a  massey,  you  med  zo  well  bide  quiet,  I tell  ’ee.  Lard  love  ’ee, 
Willum,  you  never  had  no  zense  to  speak  on,  but  you  be  clane 
(Lunch  now.  Ay,  Willum  be  clane  dunch^^"*  he  added ; while  the 
astute  Tom,  who  said  that  William  had  come  flying  in  at  the  porch 
door  (where  the  gallant  corporal  had  been  helping  pretty  Miss  Cave 
to  admire  the  moon),  and  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  make  no  other 
observation  than  that  so  scornfully  censured  by  Granfer,  assisted 
the  wagoner’s  faculties  by  a timely  draught  of  ale.  After  disposing 


]22 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


of  this  and  drying  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  William 
recovered  slightly  and  found  his  tongue. 

“ Lard  ’a  massey  on  us  all ! ” he  cried  ; ‘‘  they  bin  an’  done  for 
poor  Ben  Lee.” 

“ Done  for  him  ! ” cried  a chorus  of  voices  in  various  tones  of 
horror  and  dismay. 

“ Done  var  en,  zure  enough ! ” repeated  William,  rocking  him-= 
self  backward  and  forward,  in  a strange  contrast  to  his  usual  sto- 
lidity. ‘‘We  bin  an’  vound  the  body!  ” 

It  was  even  so.  Ben  Lee  left  his  home  at  dinner-time  and  had 
not  returned.  At  tea-time,  Mrs.  Lee  was  returning  in  the  dusk  from 
an  errand  to  Malbourne,  and  met  a hurrying  figure  clad  in  gray,  as 
she  came  through  the  fields  beneath  the  wood,  which  was  on  the 
crest  of  the  hill  above  the  Temple.  She  found  only  Alma  in  the 
house,  and,  after  waiting  with  more  discontent  than  disquiet,  she 
concluded  That  work  had  delayed  her  husband,  and  finally  took  her 
tea  and  seated  herself  at  her  needlework  by  the  fire. 

At  half-past  seven  Sir  Lionel  and  Lady  Swaynestone,  with  their 
daughter,  were  dressed  for  a dinner-party  and  awaiting  the  arrival 
of  the  carriage,  which  had  been  ordered  at  that  hour..  But  no  car- 
riage appeared,  and  a message  to  the  stables  elicited  the  news  that 
the  coachman  had  not  been  there  since  the  afternoon,  when  Ingram 
Swaynestone  chanced  to  have  seen  him  near  his  home.  A messen- 
ger to  the  Temple  returned  with  the  tidings  that  he  had  not  been 
home ; and  then  Judkins  asked  for  an  audience  with  Sir  Lionel, 
which  resulted  in  a search-party  being  sent  forth  to  find  the  miss- 
ing man,  whose  habits  were  regular  and  punctual. 

William  Grove,  who  chanced  to  be  on  some  errand  to  Swayne- 
stone for  his  master  before  going  to  the  wheelwright’s  party, 
assisted  in  the  search,  and  was  with  Judkins  when  Lee  was  dis- 
covered quite  dead  in  the  wood  above  his  home.  There  were  no 
signs  of  any  struggle  on  the  hard  frozen  path,  from  whence  his 
body  had  evidently  been  dragged  into  the  fern  and  brush,  whither 
it  was  traced  by  the  marks  on  the  rime-covered  moss  and  the  dis- 
order of  the  ferns  and  brambles.  A slight  wound  on  the  face, 
which  had  hied,  but  could  not  have  killed  him,  was  the  only  sign  of 
violence  at  first  seen. 

The  lights  were  not  extinguished  at  Swaynestone  House  till 
nearly  dawn.  Sir  Lionel,  who  was  a magistrate,  set  to  work  at 
once  to  investigate  the  fatal  affair,  the  police  were  immediately 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


123 


informed,  and  every  member  of  the  Swaynestone  household  was 
closely  questioned,  as  well  as  Mrs.  Lee.  Poor  Alma  could  not 
be  subjected  to  much  interrogation,  and  was  not  in  a position  to 
throw  any  light  upon  the  tragedy.  Death  was  not  the  only  visitor 
at  the  Temple;  a new  life,  scarcely  less  tragic  than  death,  began 
there  on  that  fatal  night,  and  the  New  Year  rose  upon  sorrow  and 
dismay  in  hall  and  cottage. 

It  took  long  to  extract  what  he  knew  of  the  affair  from  William 
Grove,  but  this  was  at  length  accomplished,  amid  varied  comment 
and  ejaculation.  Granfer  said  no  further  word  until  the  whole 
truth  had  been  elicited,  and  then  upon  the  first  favorable  pause  he 
looked  round  with  an  air  of  great  solemnity,  and  took  up  his  parable 
thus:  “You  med  all  mark  my  words.  Zomebody’ll  hae  to  swing 
for  this  yere.  Ay,  I’ve  said  it,  and  I’ll  zay  it  agen:  zomebody’ll 
hae  to  swing.” 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Next  to  the  divine  sweetness  of  youthful  love,  nothing  so  com- 
pletely charms  and  enthralls  us  as  the  rapid  development  of  new 
ideas  and  the  swift  inrush  of  fresh  knowledge  in  the  spring-time  of 
life.  How  the  world  widens  to  the  eager  student,  what  vast  and 
endless  horizons  open  out  to  his  gaze,  as  he  acquires  fresh  knowledge ! 
What  a sense  of  power  his  thoughts  give  him  as  they  draw  together 
from  the  vague  of  scattered  speculations,  and  take  definite  shape 
before  him!  Love  unlocks  the  gate  of  a yet  undiscovered  world  of 
emotion,  which  has  its  higher  and  lower  circles,  its  purgatory  and 
paradise,  and  its  endless  possibilities  beyond  ; knowledge  and  ripen- 
ing thought  rend  the  obscuring  veils  from  the  illimitable  universe. 
The  enthusiastic  delight  of  fresh  discovery  is  in  both  cases  the  very 
elixir  of  life  ; nay,  it  is  life  itself. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  year  Everard  discovered  the  new  world 
of  love;  and  on  New  Year’s  morning,  under  the  stimulus  of  a fresh 
happiness,  a theory,  after  which  he  had  long  been  groping  with 
many  a vague  surmise  and  hazardous  hypothesis,  interrupted  by. 
hopeless  gaps  in  evidence,  suddenly  revealed  itself  complete  and 
flawless  before  him.  It  came  like  an  electric  shock,  with  such  a 
happy  flash  of  inspiration  that  he  was  obliged  to  pause  in  his  dross- 


124 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


ing  to  take  in  the  results  of  the  unconscious  cerebration  which  his 
studies  and  speculations  had  set  up,  while  tears  of  joy  rushed  to  liis 
eyes.  Clear  and  distinct  as  it  was  to  his  own  mind,  he  knew  that 
years  of  patient  labor  and  minute  scientific  investigation  must  pass 
before  he  could  present  it  to  other  minds,  but  he  knew  also  that, 
once  verified,  it  would  make  an  epoch  in  the  study  of  physiology. 

Such  a superabundance  of  happiness  as  Everard’s  might  well 
excite  the  malignity  of  envious  gods,  and  would  have  prompted  an 
ancient  Greek  to  throw  aw^ay  some  precious  thing  in  all  haste.  But, 
being  a phristian  Englishman,  Everard  did  not  follow  the  example 
of  Poly  crates ; nay,  had  he  been  a Greek  of  old  days,  he  would 
never  have  imputed  envy  or  malignity  to  the  strong  immortals. 
Strength  was  to  him  a guarantee  of  goodness,  because  his  own 
strength  made  him  noble  and  kind ; it  made  him  also  pitiful  to  the 
malice  and  spite  of  weak  things. 

Full  of  this  new  rapture,  his  eyes  hazy  with  abstraction,  as  the 
eyes  of  dreamers  are  hazy  with  dreams,  Everard  went  forth  to  meet 
the  New  Year’s  new  joy  like  one  borne  upon  clouds,  and  reached 
the  breakfast -room  just  at  the  end  of  prayers.  Mr.  Maitland,  ac- 
cording to  custom,  was  dismissing  the  maids  with  a kind  good 
morning  and  New  Year’s  wish,  when  Eliza,  whose  face  was  stained 
with  tears,  paused  with  a spasmodic,  “ Oh,  please,  sir ! ” 

“You  are  discomposed,  Eliza,”  said  Mr.  Maitland,  gently,  while 
he  looked  round  and  observed  similar  perturbation  on  the  faces  of 
the  other  maids.  “ Nothing  wrong,  I hope  ? ” 

“Poor  Ben  Lee!  ” sobbed  Eliza,  resorting  to  her  handkerchief. 
“ He  was  found  dead,  sir,”  added  Martha,  the  housemaid,  her 
grief,  which  was  sincere,  tempered  by  a certain  delight  in  the  tragic- 
ally impressive. 

“ It  was  Stevens  brought  the  news,”  added  the  cook,  who  was 
also  not  impervious  to  the  pleasure  of  communicating  disastrous  in- 
telligence. 

“Found  dead!  My  good  girls!  In  Heaven’s  name,  where? 
when?  Oh,  surely  not!  Where  is  Stevens?  ” cried  Mr.  Maitland, 
as  much  agitated  as  the  heart  of  woman  could  desire.  “ Oh,  those 
poor  Lees!  What  trouble ! what  trouble  ! ” 

“It  was  last  night,  sir,”  continued  Eliza,  much  refreshed  by  her 
master’s  perturbation,  and  by  the  copious  tears  with  which  she  had 
accompanied  the  broken  narrative.  “ Sir  Lionel  had  lanterns  sent 
out  for  him.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


125 


“He  did  not  die  in  his  bed,  then?  ” the  deep  voice  of  Everard 
broke  in. 

“ He  was  hid  away  in  the  wood,”  replied  Martha;  “ and  they  do 
say — ” 

“ I must  go  to  the  Temple  at  once,”  interrupted  Mr.  Maitland, 
starting  off  to  get  his  iiat,  with  an  injunction  to  the  women  not  to 
talk  over  the  tragedy,  wdiich  he  might  as  well  have  addressed  to 
the  wind. 

Lilian  with  great  difficulty  succeeded  in  keeping  him  back  until 
she  had  made  him  drink  some  coffee  and  take  a little  food,  when  he 
started  off  at  railroad  speed,  bidding  her  tell  the  clerk  there  would 
be  no  service  that  morning.  Then  Henry  and  Lilian  and  the  two 
children  sat  down  to  a melancholy  breakfaiit,  and  the  discussion  of 
the  tragedy,  of  which  they  gathered  from  the  servants  as  much  as 
William  Grove  had  communicated  on  the  previous  night,  together 
with  a fine  growth  of  conjecture  and  exaggeration. 

“ Poor  Alma ! ” sighed  Lilian,  when  her  father  was  gone.  “ Oh, 
Henry  ! what  do  you  think  of  it?  ” 

I am  afraid  it  looks  rather  dark,”  returned  Henry,  not  observ- 
ing the  entrance  of  Eliza  with  a hot  dish.  Lee’s  behavior,  when 
last  I saw  him,  was  most  unaccountable.  His  trouble  evidently 
- preyed  on  his  mind,  poor  fellow.” 

“ Oh,  Henry!  what  do  you  mean?  Not — ” 

“ An  unhinged  mind  quickly  turns  to  suicide,”  replied  Henry, 
suddenly  checking  himself  as  he  became  aware  of  the  wide  gaze  of 
Winnie’s  eyes  immediately  opposite  him. 

Five  minutes  after,  the  whole  of  Malbourne  knew  that  Dr.  Ever- 
ard had  received  the  intelligence  with  little  surprise,  and  at  once 
ascribed  it  to  suicide. 

Cyril  had  started  for  Woodlands  before  breakfast,  leaving  a 
charming  note  of  New^  Year’s  wishes  for  everybody,  and  say- 
ing that  it  was  incumbent  on  him  to  go  to  Woodlands  at  once,  to 
apologize  for  his  incivility  in  not  meeting  Marion  on  the  previous 
day. 

“ What  a devoted  lover ! ” Mr.  Maitland  had  observed,  on  hear- 
ing the  note  read.  “Well,  man  has  but  one  spring-time,  though 
the  birds  renew  their  youth  every  year.” 

“ I think,  papa,”  said  Winnie,  in  one  of  those  sudden  visitations 
of  acuteness  which  befall  little  girls  occasionally,  “ that  Cyril  is  not 
so  devoted  to  loving  as  to  being  loved.” 


126 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


And  Lilian  knew  that  the  child  had  hit  on  her  brother’s  weak 
point. 

After  breakfast,  Everard  accompanied  Lilian  and  the  children 
on  a visit  to  the  invalid  donkey  and  other  dumb  dependents.  It 
was  pleasant  to  see  Lilian  in  the  poultry -yard.  When  she  entered 
the  yard  she  gave  a little  coo,  and  a flock  of  pigeons,  preening 
themselves  aloft  on  gable  and  roof  in  the  sunshine,  came  flutter- 
ing down,  a rustling  cloud  of  white  wings,  and  settled  upon  her  till 
she  seemed  a parody  on  Lot’s  wife,  a pillar  of  birds  instead  of  salt, 
while  the  more  adventurous  fowls  sprang  up  and  pecked  the  grain 
from  her  basket  and  her  hands,  till  she  scattered  pigeons,  fowls, 
and  all,  with  a light  “ Hish!  ” and  wave  of  her  arms. 

Everard,  the  children,  and  the  two  dogs  stood  apart  to  watch 
this  little  scene,  Everard  smoking  tranquilly,  and  delighting  in  the 
picture  of  Lilian  involved  in  her  cloud  of  dove-like  wings.  During 
this  progress  he  told  her  eagerly  of  the  theory  which  had  been  born 
in  his  brain  that  morning,  and  they  both  discussed  it,  Lilian  being 
sufflciently  grounded  in  science  to  comprehend  something  of  the 
importance  of  the  subject,  and  having,  moreover,  the  receptive  in- 
tellect which  readily  admits  half-grasped  notions. 

“We  shall  have  to  work  hard  for  this,”  Everard  said,  knowing 
that  Lilian  would  willingly  take  her  share  of  the  toil. 

“It  will  be  well  worth  hard  work,”  she  replied  joyously  ; “ but 
I have  other  work  now,  so  I must  go  in.  E”o;  I have  not  told 
mother,”  she  added,  in  reply  to  a whispered  question  from  Henry; 
“ I would  rather  it  came  from  you.” 

“ And  I have  had  no  opportunity  as  yet,”  he  said.  “ So  I have 
to  skate  with  these  scamps,  have  I?  Very  well;  but  join  us  as 
soon  as  you  cau,  Lilian.” 

“And  mind  you  bring  some  cake,”  added  Lennie,  who  was 
nothing  if  not  practical;  and  the  children,  hanging  one  on  each 
of  Everard ’s  hands,  danced  joyously  olf  into  Northover  Park, 
where  they  were  to  skate  on  a piece  of  water  a quarter  of  a mile 
ofi*. 

Just  as  they  entered  the  gate  by  the  lodge,  Lyster  Garrett  was 
leaving  it.  He  looked  at  Henry  with  some  surprise,  and  received 
his  greeting  very  stiffly. 

“Oh,  do  come  and  skate,  Lyster!”  cried  Lennie;  “then  you 
can  help  me,  and  Winnie  can  have  Henry  to  herself.” 

“I  am  going  to  Swaynestone,”  Garrett  said.  “This  is  a sad 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  127 

business  of  Lee’s.  Foul  play,  I fear ; ” and  be  looked  searcbingly 
at  Everard. 

“Foul  play?”  returned  Everard.  “Nonsense I Why,  I sup- 
pose poor  Lee  never  had  an  enemy  in  his  lif^^” 

“ He  had  one,”  said  Garrett,  with  marked  emphasis.  “ I should 
strongly  recommend  that  person  to  make  himself  scarce.” 

“ Lee  was  not  a m*an  to  make  enemies,  poor  fellow,”  replied 
Everard.  It  will  all  come  out  at  the  inquest,  no  doubt.  Mr.  Mait- 
land is  gone  to  the  Temple  to  comfort  the  poor  widow.” 

And  they  passed  on,  Everard  wondering  what  on  earth  was  the 
matter  with  young  Garrett,  who  was  studying  for  the  Bar,  and  was 
rather  inclined  to  look  upon  human  existence  as  raw  material  to  be 
worked  up  in  courts  of  justice. 

“The  world  doesn’t  loolc  much  older  than  it  did  yesterday, 
Henry,”  observed  Winnie,  thoughtfully;  “yet  it’s  sixty-three,  and 
yesterday  it  was  only  sixty-two.” 

Henry  did  not  reply,  but  looked  reflectively  at  the  frozen  land- 
scape and  clouded  sky,  whence  the  sun  had  been  shining  half  an 
hour  before.  There  was  a vague  misgiving  within  him ; Garrett’s 
hints  flung  a shroud  of  dark  conjecture  over  the  Lee  tragedy,  which 
he  bad  forgotten  for  the  moment.  The  world  did  look  older  to 
him,  and  it  seemed  a whole  year  since  yesterday.  But  the  pond 
was  soon  reached,  and  the  children’s  skates  and  his  own  had  to  be 
fltted  on  at  the  expense  of  freezing  fingers  and  stagnant  bloody 
which  a few  turns  in  the  biting  air  set  right  again.  Then  the  Gar- 
rett ladies  appeared,  and  there  was  quite  a little  party  on  the  ice, 
and,  the  children  having  by  this  time  learnt  to  go  alone,  Henry  in- 
dulged himself  in  some  artistic  skating,  and  the  world  grew  young 
again,  and  he  did  not  observe  that  Miss  Garrett  and  her  sister  de- 
clined all  his  offers  of  assistance,  and  avoided  him  as  much  as  the 
small  extent  of  the  little  lake  would  permit. 

“ I am  not  sure  that  I shall  marry  Ingram  Swaynestone,  after 
all,”  Winnie  observed  to  Lilian,  when  she  arrived  with  the  promised 
cake  in  an  hour’s  time.  “ I think  pw’aps  I shall  have  Henwy  when 
I gwow  up.” 

“ There  was  nobody  in  the  world  like  Ingram  yesterday,”  Lilian 
laughed ; “ so  I suppose  your  skating  instructions  have  been  more 
successful  than  his,  Henry.” 

“ This  is  rather  a dismal  New  Year’s  morning,”  Lilian  said  to 
Henry,  who  was  busily  engaged  in  fitting  on  her  skates.  “ Those 
9 


128 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLANH, 


poor  Lees  haunt  me,  and  the  servants  say  there  are  such  dreadful 
surmises  about  Ben’s  death.  I wish  Cyril  were  here.  I wonder 
what  he  is  doing  ? ” 

Cyril  at  that  moment  was  in  the  library  at  Woodlands,  comfort- 
ably seated  in  a deep  arm-chair  by  a blazing  fire.  The  laity  of  the 
male  kind  were  shooting ; Marion  and  her  sister,  Mrs.  Whiteford, 
were  busily  employed  with  the  other  ladies  in  decorations  and  ar- 
rangements for  the  impending  ball.  Cyril  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
library  with  a book  that  he  was  utterly  unable  to  read,  and  was 
sorry  to  find  that  George  Everard  had  followed  his  example. 

The  Kev.  George  had  assumed  that  attitude  on  the  hearth-rug 
which  means  conversation,  and  the  disposition  of  his  coat-tails  was 
such  as  forebodes  a long  discourse,  as  Cyril  observed  with  inward 
groans.  Cyril’s  face  was  strained  and  haggard ; his  mind  was  in 
the  tense,  over- wrought  condition  which  craves  solitude  and  repose; 
and  he  racked  his  brains  for  some  pretext  to  escape  from  his 
brother  clergyman,  who  had  the  advantage  of  being  his  senior  by 
many  years,  and  whose  theology  was  of  a kind  to  fill  Cyril  with 
despair,  since  George  belonged  to  the  straitest  sect  of  the  Evan- 
gelicals. 

Mr.  Everard  began  by  commenting  upon  his  young  brother’s 
worn  appearance,  and  accusing  him  of  fasting. 

“I  fasted,”  replied  Cyril,  “because  I was  too  unwell  to  eat. 
And,  if  I received  the  New  Year  with  watching  and  prayer,  you 
will  surely  allow  that  I might  have  done  worse.” 

“ Truly.  I could  wish  many  to  follow  your  example,  Maitland ; 
but  not  to  the  injury  of  this  fleshly  tabernacle,  as  I fear  your  have 
done.  Such  misdirected  zeal  amounts  to  excess,  and  that  will- wor- 
ship against  which  we  are  cautioned.  You  played  a very  poor  part 
at  breakfast,  I observed.” 

Cyril  smiled,  for  he  had  observed,  on  his  part,  George  Everard’s 
vigorous  onslaught  upon  his  father’s  well-spread  breakfast-table, 
and  he  replied  that  his  lack  of  appetite  was  due  to  his  own  folly  in 
taking  a long  walk  fasting  after  a day  of  headache.  “Indeed,  I am 
thoroughly  knocked  up,”  he  added  wearily. 

“My  dear  young  friend,”  continued  George,  solemnly,  “I  have 
become  deeply  interested  in  you.  I perceive  that  you  are  a very 
precious  vessel.” 

In  spite  of  his  weariness,  and  the  strange  hunted  look  that  made 
him  appear  to  start  at  every  sound  as  if  expecting  evil  tidings, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


129 


Cyril’s  face  kindled  and  gained  an  added  charm  at  these  words. 
Appreciation  was  the  very  breath  of  life  to  him,  and  he  felt  that  he 
had  hitherto  thought  too  slightingly  of  George,  who  perhaps,  after 
all,  could  not  help  being  evangelical,  and  consequently  rather  slangy 
in  his  religious  conversation.  He  made  a graceful  allusion  to  their 
impending  relationship,  thanked  George  for  his  good  opinion,  and 
expressed  a hope  that  they  might  know  more  of  each  other  before 
long. 

“I  have  wrestled  in  prayer  for  you,”  continued  the  elder  priest. 
“ I shall  continue  to  wrestle,  that  you  may  come  to  know  the  truth, 
and  that  you  may  have  strength  to  resist  the  seductions  of  the  Scar- 
let Woman.  I observe  great  powers  in  you — singular  powers; 
powers  that  may  effect  much  in  the  vineyard,  if  you  only  devote 
them  to  your  Master’s  service ; powers  which,  unsanctified,  will 
lead  you  iuto  great  temptations.” 

‘‘  I am  in  for  it,”  thought  Cyril,  who  disliked  listening  to  other 
people’s  sermons  as  much  as  doctors  object  to  taking  their  own 
prescriptions;  “he  is  wound  up  for  at  least  six  heads.”  But  his 
face  wore  the  most  winning  expression  of  interest  and  the  deference 
due  to  one  so  much  older  in  the  ministry  than  himself,  while  he 
replied  modestly  that  he  was  aware  that  some  talents  had  been 
vouchsafed  him,  and  did  not  intend  to  hide  them  in  a napkin,  but 
that  he  thought  perhaps  his  dear  brother  rated  him  too  highly  in 
the  kindness  of  his  heart. 

At  which  Everard  smiled  paternally,  and  proceeded  to  speak  of 
Cyril’s  gifts — his  agreeable  manner  and  power  of  winnings  hearts, 
his  eloquence,  his  intellectual  polish,  and  his  musical  and  flexible 
voice,  and  pointed  out  to  him  the  peculiar  power  these  would  give 
him  in  his  ministerial  capacity. 

“Not  that  these  mere  carnal  gifts  are  anything  in  themselves,” 
he  continued ; “ they  are  but  nets  to  catch  men.  The  nets  are  not 
necessary,  but  it  pleases  the  Lord  to  work  by  means,  and  those  to 
whom  much  is  given  will  have  much  to  answer  for.  In  short,  you 
have  very  singular  opportunities  of  doing  good  work  in  the  vine- 
yard, I am  thankful  that  you  have  been  moved  to  enter  the  minis- 
try. You  might  have  had  a more  brilliant  career  in  a worldly  call- 
ing. But  what  you  have  undertaken  is  worth  any  sacrifice.  And  no 
man,  having  once  put  his  hand  to  the  plow,  may  dare  to  look  back.” 

George  Everard  was  not  destitute  of  the  human  weakness  that 
leads  us  to  believe  in  the  value  of  our  own  good  advice,  but  he 


130 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


would  have  been  rather  startled  if  he  could  have  known  the  power- 
tul  effect  bis  words  had  upon  his  susceptible  and  impulsive  listener’s 
mind. 

“ I time  put  my  hands  to  the  plow,”  said  Cyril,  taking  away  the 
hands  in  which  he  had  buried  his  haggard  face  during  this  exordium, 
and  speaking  in  those  deep,  strong  chest-notes  which  so  stirred  the 
fiber  of  liis  listeners’  hearts;  “ I will  never  turn  back.  I call  you 
to  witness,  George  Everard,  in  the  face  of  high  Heaven,  that  I will 
never  turn  back,  and  that  I will  make  any  and  every  sacrifice  for 
the  sake  of  this  my  high  calling  and  vocation.” 

Cyril  rose  from  his  seat  as  he  spoke,  and  raised  one  hand  with 
an  impressive  gesture.  All  the  languor  and  dejection  vanished  from 
his  face  and  form ; a dazzle  of  pale  blue  fire  came  from  his  eyes ; 
his  every  feature  kindled;  his  whole  being  expressed  an  intensity 
of  feeling  that  almost  frightened  Everard,  who  felt  something  like 
a child  playing  with  matches  and  suddenly  kindling  a wood-pile. 
He  could  only  ejaculate  faintly,  “ My  dear  young  friend ! ” while 
Cyril  paced  the  room  with  firm  strides  and  loftily  erect  head,  a 
thing  of  grace  and  spirit-like  beauty,  and  at  last  paused  in  front  of 
George  with  such  a glance  of  fire  as  seemed  to  pierce  through  and 
through  the  soul  of  the  elder  man,  and  offered  him  his  hand,  saying, 
“ Do  you  bear  me  witness?  ” 

‘‘  I do  indeed,”  faltered  the  other,  overcome  by  the  sight  of  an 
emotion  beyond  his  conception,  accustomed  though  he  was  to  a 
purely  sentimental  form  of  religion  ; and  he  pressed  Cyril’s  fevered 
hand  in  his  own  cool  one,  uttering  some  words  of  prayer  and  bless- 
ing, thinking  that  possibly  one  of  the  sudden  conversions  he  so  con- 
stantly preached  about,  and  so  rarely  discovered  any  traces  of  in 
actual  life,  had  taken  place. 

‘‘  Your  words,”  said  Cyril,  quietly,  after  a time,  “ were  like  a 
spark  to  a train  of  gunpowder.  They  came  at  a moment  of  internal 
wrestling,  and  helped  me  to  a decision.” 

George  Everard  replied  that  he  was  blest  in  being  the  unworthy 
instrument  of  speaking  a word  in  season,  and  proceeded  to  admon- 
ish his  convert  at  length  ; while  Cyril,  with  all  the  fire  quenched  in 
his  look  and  bearing,  sat  drooping  and  haggard  beneath  the  cold, 
unimpassioned  gaze  of  his  counselor,  busied  with  his  own  thoughts, 
and  occasionally  smiling  a little  inward  smile  as  the  well-worn 
phrases  and  various  allusions  to  the  Scarlet  Woman  fell  on  hia 
wearied  ear. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND. 


131 


“In  conclusion,  dear  Cyril,”  George  said  at  length,  “I  must  bid 
you  beware  of  women.” 

Cyril  started  and  flusheo,  but  Everard  smiled  and  continued — 

“Do  not  mistake  me.  You  have  hitherto  had  no  temptation 
from  that  source ; the  monastic  discipline  of  your  life  at  St.  Chad’s, 
however  mistaken,  has  at  least  that  advantage.  But,  my  dear 
brother,  you  will  find  the  weaker  vessels  a stumbling-block  and  a 
constant  thorn  in  the  fiesh  of  the  Christian  pastor.  Our  sisters 
have  a fatal  habit  of  mixing  personal  with  religious  feeling.” 

Here  he  sighed  deeply,  and  Cyril  suddenly  remembered  a legend 
to  the  effect  that  the  Rev.  George,  in  his  curate  days,  possessed  a 
large  cupboard  full  of  unworn  slippers  worked  by  the  faithful  sisters 
of  his  flock.  “ Thinking  that  they  love  the  manna  furnished  them 
by  the  faithful  shepherd,  they  too  often,  and  perhaps  unconsciously, 
cherish  a tenderness  for  the  shepherd  himself,  and  this  leads  to 
much  that  does  not  conduce  to  edifying.  Such  feelings  are  indeed 
harmless ; but,  though  all  things  are  lawful  unto  me,  all  things  are 
not  expedient,  especially,”  he  added,  with  unguarded  confidence, 
“when  one’s  wife  is  inclined  to  be  jeal — Well,  you  know,  a 
young  pastor  should  be  prepared.  And  let  no  man  be  too  sure  of 
himself.  Our  poor  sisters  constantly  want  spiritual  advice;  let 
them  seek  it  of  an  aged  pastor.  I would  counsel  you,  whose  man- 
ners  and  appearance  are  so  strikingly  calculated  to  impress  weaker 
vessels  with  admiration,  to  confine  your  personal  ministrations  to 
men  and  elder  sisters.  You  will  be  run  after  as  a popular  preacher, 
and  women  will  be  a snare  to  you,  as  tending  to  bring  discredit  on 
your  calling,  and  giving  occasion  to  the  enemy  to  blaspheme.  The 
Christian  pastor  must  not  only  abstain  from  all  evil,  but  from  all 
appearance  of  evil — nay,  the  remotest  suspicion  of  it.  Our  light 
has  to  shine  strongly  before  men.” 

“I  feel  that  most  keenly,”  replied  Cyril,  roused  to  interest.  “1 
feel  that  the  lightest  imputation  upon  us  is  absolutely  fatal  to  our 
influence  ; that  we  are  bound  to  a far  stricter  life  than  others.  By 
the  way,  Everard,  a very  difficult  case  of  conscience  was  submitted 
to  our  rector  some  years  ago.  There  was  a man  doing  good  work 
in  a parish  consisting  mainly  of  cultured  and  wealthy  people,  a man 
who  had  great  personal  influence.  That  man  in  early  youth  had 
done  a wrong,  which  he  bitterly  repented,  to  atone  for  which  he 
would  have  given  years  of  his  life — perhaps  even  life  itself.  A 
girl” — Cyril  paused,  and  a thick,  sobbing  sigh  caught  his  breath 


132 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


and  impeded  his  utterance — “ a girl  had  been,  alas!  led  astray.  She 
died  by  her  own  hand.  Years  after,  when  the  penitent  was  in  the 
height  of  his  usefulness,  a man  who  had  loved  this  girl  found  him 
out,  and  attempted  to  avenge  the  unhappy  girl’s  death  by  killing 
him.  He  attacked  him  in  a lonely  spot,  on  a ledge  of  narrow  cliff.” 
Cyril  paused  again,  and  moistened  his  parched  lips,  passing  his 
handkerchief  over  his  damp,  chill  forehead  at  the  same  time. 
“There  was  a struggle  for  life — no  violence  on  the  priest’s  part; 
only  the  instinctive  struggle  for  self-preservation — and  the  would-be 
assassin  was  hurled  over  the  cliff  to  his  death.”  Cyril  paused  once 
more,  and  cau^’ht  his  ’ breath  chokingly.  ‘‘  ]^o  suspicion  was 
aroused;  the  verdict  was  accidental  death.  The  clergyman  gave  no 
evidence.  He  went  on  his  usual  way,  and  no  one  ever  guessed  that 
his  hand — the  hand  which  gave  the  sacred  elements  I — had  sent  a 
fellow-creature  to  his  grave.  The  question  which  concerned  our 
rector  was,  whether  the  unintentional  homicide  ought  to  have  vol- 
unteered his  evidence,  and  confessed  his  involuntary  share  in  the 
poor  creature’s  death.  You  see,”  continued  Cyril,  suddenly  lifting 
his  face  to  his  listener,  “he  must  have  brought  up  the  old  scandal 
if  he  had  done  so,  and  that,  coupled  with  the  mystery  about  the 
death,  would  have  utterly  ruined  his  career  as  a Christian  pas- 
tor.” 

“ True,”  replied  George,  thoughtfully  studying  the  intricacies  of 
the  Turkey  carpet.  “ How  did  your  rector  obtain  possession  of 
these  facts?  ” 

“The  poor  fellow  confided  in  him — came  to  him  for  advice  in 
Ms  trouble.” 

“And  what  was  the  advice?  ” 

“It  was  never  given.  Agitation  of  mind  brought  on  severe 
dlness,  which  proved  fatal.  The  rector  found  it  difficult  to  arrive 
at  any  decision.  What  do  you  think  ? ” 

“ Truly,  my  dear  young  friend,  the  case  is  perplexing.  Had  the 
question  been  referred  to  me,  I should  certainly  have  made  it  a mat- 
ter of  earnest  prayer.  As  a mere  abstract  question,  I feel  inclined 
to  favor  the  erring  pastor’s  course  of  action.  A revelation  of  the 
truth  would  doubtless  have  given  great  occasion  to  the  enemy  to 
blaspheme.” 

Cyril  heaved  a sigh  of  relief.  “Very  true,”  he  replied,  sinking 
back  into  the  depths  of  his  easy-chair,  whence  he  quickly  started  in 
nervous  tremor  as  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  glanced  appre- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND,  133 


hensively  round,  to  see  nothing  more  terrible  than  the  bright  face 
and  light  figure  of  Marion. 

“ Oh ! here  you  are,  you  bad  boys,  looking  as  grave  as  two 
owls,”  she  said,  in  her  light,  delicate  treble.  “George,  your  wife 
wants  you  in  the  drawing-room  at  once.” 

The  obedient  husband  rose  immediately,  but  paused  lingeringly 
at  the  door.  “We  will  discuss  the  matter  further,”  he  said» 
“ Cyril  and  I have  been  having  the  most  interesting  conversation, 
Marion.  I have  passed  a refreshing  morning  with  him.  We  have 
more  in  common  than  I supposed.” 

And  with  an  indulgent  tap  of  his  young  sister’s  cheek,  George 
vanished,  and  left  the  lovers  alone,  Marion  charmed  to  find  such 
harmony  established  between  the  two  ecclesiastics,  who  bid  fair  at 
one  time  to  differ  as  only  those  of  the  same  creed  under  slightly 
varying  aspects  can  differ. 

“ Isn’t  it  provoking,  Cyril  ? ” she  cried.  “ Here  is  a telegram 
from  Leslie,  to  say  he  can  not  spare  time  to  come  to-night,  and  his 
regiment  does  not  embark  till  the  third.  If  any  one  wants  to  wish 
him  good-by,  they  can  run  over  to  Portsmouth  to-morrow.  I dare 
say,  indeed!  The  other  officers  are  coming;  but  we  shall  be  short 
of  men,  I fear.” 

“ Is  that  all  ? ” returned  Cyril,  with  a sigh  of  relief ; for 
he  had  turned  pale  and  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  his  telegram. 
“Well,  dearest,  let  us  run  over  with  your  father  and  Keppel  to- 
morrow, and  wish  them  all  good-by  at  once.  I rather  envy 
the  admiral  going  on  the  Mediterranean  station  at  this  murky 
season.” 

“You  poor  boy!  ” exclaimed  Marion,  placing  her  hand  upon  his 
burning  brow  ; “ you  look  as  if  you  needed  some  kind  of  a change. 
I am  afraid  your  head  is  still  aching.” 

“It  is  maddening,”  returned  Cyril,  detaining  the  caressing  hand. 
“To  tell  the  truth,  I am  very  unwell.  I ought  not  to  have  walked 
this  morning.” 

“Indeed  you  ought  not.  I saw  that  you  were  quite  lame  from 
fatigue.” 

“And  who  is  to  blame  for  my  walk?”  returned  Cyril,  with 
forced  gaiety ; “who  but  Miss  Everard?  I suppose  I caught  cold 
in  Long’s  gig  yesterday  afternoon.  I had  no  overcoat,  meaning  to 
walk.  I feel  as  if  I had  been  beaten  all  over.” 

“Poor  dear!  ” said  Marion,  tenderly.  “And  you  actually  have 


134 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


a little  bruise  here  over  the  temple,”  she  added,  touching  the  place, 
which  was  tender  even  to  her  velvet  touch. 

‘‘Oh,  that’s  nothing!  ” Cyril  replied  hastily;  but  he  rose  and 
approached  a small  mirror,  into  which  he  gazed  apprehensively. 
‘‘Ah  yes,  I dressed  in  a hurry,  and  hit  myself  with  a hair-brush. 
And  this,”  he  added,  pointing  to  a strip  of  plaster  on  his  chin,  “I 
did  in  shaving.”  • 

“ What  can  we  do  for  you  ? ” asked  Marion.  “ I was  going  to 
ask  you  to  carry  some  plants  from  the  conservatory,  but  you  must 
not.” 

“Come  and  sit  by  me,  dear,”  Cyril  replied,  in  his  gracefully 
autocratic  manner;  “there  is  no  anodyne  like  your  presence.” 

So  the  lovers  remained  hand-in-hand  by  the  library  fire  a good 
hour,  Marion’s  bright  eyes  and  caressing  tones  worshiping  Cyril, 
who  appreciated  nothing  so  much  as  incense. 

George  Everard,  in  the  mean  time,  was  telling  his  wife  what  un- 
expected graces  he  had  discovered  in  his  future  brother-in-law. 
“A  very  precious  soul,”  he  said.  “He  only  needs  Christian  infiu- 
ence.” 

Mrs.  Everard  knew  well  that,  according  to  the  usage  of  her  hus- 
band’s tribe,  the  word  Christian  was  not  applicable  to  either  of  the 
Maitlands. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

When-  the  little  skating-party  reached  the  Rectory,  Mr.  Mait- 
land had  not  returned  from  his  errand  of  charity,  nor  did  he  appear 
when  luncheon  was  served.  The  meal  was  delayed  half  an  hour, 
and  then  took  place  without  him.  Mrs.  Maitland  was  depressed  at 
the  melancholy  opening  of  the  Hew  Year,  and  Henry  had  devoted 
himself  to  the  task  of  cheering  and  amusing  her. 

He  read  to  her  for  a good  hour  before  luncheon,  while  Lilian 
wrote  notes,  and  the  children,  tired  with  the  morning’s  exercise, 
buried  themselves  in  books  of  their  own.  “ The  Prisoner  of  Chil- 
lon,”  for  which  Mrs.  Maitland  had  an  amiable  weakness,  formed 
part  of  the  reading,  and  Henry  was  rewarded  for  his  rendering  of 
it  by  the  following  observation  from  Lennie,  who  had  not  appeared 
to  be  listening: — “You  should  hear  Cywil  read  that,  Henry ! You 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


135 


can’t  hold  a candle  to  him.”  Whereupon  Everard,  in  revenge,  took 
him  up  by  the  waistband  with  one  hand,  and  carried  him  out  into 
the  hall,  where  he  stuck  him  up  in  a niche  intended  for  a lamp,  and 
whence  Lennie  had  an  uninterrupted  view  through  the  hall  window 
and  down  the  village  street. 

‘‘Oh,  I say,”  he  cried,  “look  at  all  those  policemen!”  and 
Henry,  looking  out,  saw  a couple  of  blue-coated  constables  standing 
chattering  with  the  villagers,  one  group  just  outside  the  Rectory 
gate. 

“ Don’t  say  anything  about  it  before  your  mother,  Lennie,”  he 
said,  lifting  the  boy  down  from  his  perch.  “They  are  making  in- 
quiries about  Ben  Lee,  that’s  all.” 

They  were  finishing  their  meal,  when  Mr.  Maitland’s  step  was 
heard  in  the  hall,  and  Lilian  went  out  to  meet  him.  To  all  her  in- 
quiries, he  said  that  he  wished  to  be  alone  for  a little,  and  desired 
that  wine  and  food  might  be  sent  to  the  study  for  him. 

“He  is  a good  deal  upset,  no  doubt,”  commented  Mrs.  Maitland. 
“ I sometimes  think,  Lilian,  that  your  father  is  too  sensitive  for  a 
parish  priest.” 

“What  would  he  be  as  a doctor,  Mrs.  Maitland?”  Everard 
asked,  laughing. 

“ Oh,  Henry,  we  all  know  that  only  exceptionally  hard  hearts  can 
endure  that  profession,”  she  replied,  to  the  indignation  of  Winnie, 
who  maintained  that  the  medical  profession  induced  a particular 
tenderness  of  heart,  as  was  manifested  by  the  specimen  they  had  in 
Henry, 

They  were  about  to  leave  the  dining-room,  when  Eliza,  in  a 
great  state  of  fiutter,  appeared  to  say  that  Mr.  Maitland  wished  to 
see  Dr.  Everard  in  his  study,  whither  Everard  repaired  with  a dim 
sense  of  impending  disaster.  It  was  not  an  auspicious  moment  for 
speaking  of  his  engagement  to  Lilian,  and  yet  he  felt  that  the  mo- 
mentous question  was  about  to  be  decided.  Could  it  be  that  Mr. 
Maitland  had  gathered  some  hints  of  his  relations  with  her,  and 
wished  to  put  an  end  to  it  at  once  ? Or,  was  he  merely  giving  him 
an  opportunity  of  declaring  his  intentions? 

As  Everard  crossed  the  hall.  Snip  and  Snap  ran  growling  before 
him,  and  barked  at  an  unseen  figure  standing  outside  the  door. 
Mark  Antony  also  ran  out  with  a suspicious  look  and  angry  eyes; 
but  Everard  was  too  full  of  his  own  refiections  to  observe  the  ani- 
mals. He  whistled  slightly  to  put  himself  at  ease,  and  was  ashamed 


136 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


to  feel  his  heart  beating  like  a girl’s  as  he  paused  to  open  the  study 
door.  He  entered,  closing  it  behind  him. 

Mr.  Maitland  was  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  with  his  back  to 
him.  Above  the  mantel-piece  was  a fine  engraving  of  De  la  Eoche’s 
picture  of  the  Agony  of  Gethsemane,  a picture  forever  afterward 
associated  in  Everard’s  mind  with  that  solemn  moment  in  his  life. 
The  kneeling  figure,  awful  in  suffering,  trembling  before  an  anguish 
beyond  human  strength  to  endure,  touched  him  with  a new  signifi- 
cance ; the  cup  which  human  nature  dared  not  grasp,  but  which 
divine  love  resolved  to  drain  to  the  lees,  suddenly,  he  knew  not  how, 
symbolized  his  life ; the  terrible  struggle  between  spirit  and  flesh 
became  his.  All  in  one  flash  these  feelings  passed  through  him,  for, 
as  soon  as  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Mr.  Maitland  turned  and 
looked  at  him. 

“■  What  is  it  ? ” cried  Henry,  in  a low,  choked  tones. 

Ten  years  had  apparently  been  added  to  the  gentle  priest’s  age, 
and  his  haggard  and  careworn  air  emphasized  his  likeness  to  Cyril. 
But  it  was  the  look  in  his  eyes  which  sent  all  the  blood  rushing 
thickly  to  Everard’s  heart,  such  a look  of  fiery  anger  and  indigna- 
tion as  seemed  utterly  inconsistent  with  his  kindly  affectionate  na- 
ture, a hurt  look,  a look  of  unendurable  anguish.  Once  before,  and 
only  once,  Henry  had  seen  that  look,  and  now  all  the  years  rolled 
back,  and  he  saw  the  painful  scene  it  recalled  with  vivid  intensity. 
It  was  the  only  time  Mr.  Maitland  had  ever  thrashed  Cyril,  an  epoch 
in  the  children’s  lives. 

Some  choice  fruit  had  been  set  aside  for  a dying  parishioner, 
who  chanced  to  have  been  Ben  Lee’s  first  wife,  and  Cyril,  not 
knowing  it  was  intended  for  any  special  purpose,  and  being  un- 
luckily alone  in  the  dining-room  with  it,  had  yielded  to  a tempta- 
tion he  never  could  resist,  and  had  eaten  first  one  cool  juicy  fruit, 
and  then  another,  until  the  dish  was  empty.  In  a boy  of  ten  it  was 
not  a grave  fault,  and,  remorse  having  seized  the  child  just  as  the 
last  peach  vanished,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  and  confess,  and 
receive  some  light  punishment  or  perhaps  only  a rebuke.  But  just 
then  inquiry  was  made  for  the  missing  fruit,  its  intended  destina- 
tion was  announced  in  his  hearing,  and  both  father  and  mother 
were  much  annoyed  at  its  disappearance. 

All  the  household  was  interrogated,  and  expressed  ignorance  of 
the  matter ; and,  a servant  having  called  attention  to  Cyril’s  prox- 
imity to  the  temptation,  he  was  specially  questioned,  but  denied  in 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MaITLAND. 


137 


the  calmest  way  having  even  seen  such  a thing  as  a nectarine. 
Later,  when  the  mysterious  disappearance  was  being  discussed,  Cy- 
ril expressed  virtuous  indignation  against  the  greedy  thief,  and  at 
the  same  moment  taking  out  his  handkerchief,  he  let  fall  a peach - 
stone,  and  on  being  searched  a whole  handful  of  fruit-stones  was 
discovered  in  his  pocket. 

It  was  then  that  Everard  saw  that  fiery  look  in  Mr.  Maitland’s 
kindly  eyes.  He  well  remembered  listening  with  the  sobbing  Lilian 
in  the  hall,  and  hearing  the  rod  in  its  unsparing  descent  on  the  cul- 
prit's back  and  the  pale  anguish  of  Cyril’s  face  when  he  left  the 
study,  shamed  and  tearless,  to  throw  himself  into  Lilian’s  arms,  and 
tell  her  that  he  wished  he  had  never  been  born.  Later  in  the  even- 
ing, he  found  the  children  crouched  together  in  each  other’s  arms, 
crying ; and  then  Cyril  told  them  how  he  had  lied  from  fear,  not 
so  much  of  punishment  as  of  the  public  disgrace  of  having  robbed 
the  sick.  He  never  could  endure  to  be  thought  ill  of.  And  now 
Henry  saw  the  same  look  of  agony  and  anger  in  Mr.  Maitland’s  face, 
and  could  only  ask,  What  is  it?  ” 

Henry,”  the  old  man  replied,  in  those  fuller  tones  which  re- 
sembled Cyril’s,  and  which  nothing  but  intense  feeling  could  pro- 
duce in  him,  ‘‘  I have  loved  you  as  a son.” 

“ Sir,”  replied  Henry,  “ you  have  always  treated  me  as  one. 
This  house  has  been  my  home.” 

have  been  proud  of  you,  Henry ; I have  valued  your  intellect 
and  respected  your  moral  worth.” 

A terrible  foreboding  of  what  was  coming  shot  through  Ever- 
ard’s  brain.  He  sank  into  a chair,  and  turned  white  to  the  lips. 
Mr.  Maitland  remained  standing,  with  the  same  dreadful  gaze  fixed 
upon  Henry,  and  the  sublime  sorrow  of  Gethsemane  pictured  above 
his  head. 

“ You  must  know  what  I have  to  say  to  you,”  he  continued. 
“ Do  not,  I beseech  you,  do  not  pain  me  by  obliging  me  to  tell  yon 
in  so  many  words.” 

“ I do  not  know  what  you  have  to  say  to  me,”  replied  Everard, 
in  a faint  voice. 

“You  lie!  ” cried  Mr.  Maitland. 

“ Sir ! ” exclaimed  Everard,  starting  to  his  feet. 

“That  you  should  bring  disgrace  upon  the  roof  which  sheltered 
you ! ” continued  Mr.  Maitland,  looking  in  his  passion  more  and 
more  like  Cyril. 


138 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


“Sir,”  said  Henry,  with  cold,  hurt  pride,  “you  presume  upon 
your  privilege  as  an  older  man  and  a clergyman.  You  have  no 
right  to  insult  me  in  this  unwarrantable  manner.  I will  try  not  to 
forget  that  you  have  been  a father  to  me,  when  my  own 'father  was 
unable  to  see  much  of  me,  and  that  Mrs.  Maitland — I had  no 
mother — ” 

“ Thank  God  for  that ! ” remarked  Mr.  Maitland.  “ Oh,  Henry, 
what  awful  hypocrisy  is  yours!  When  I think  of  all  you  said  about 
that  unhappy  girl!  When  1 remember  the  wrong  we  all,  even  his 
own  father,  did  to  Ingram  Swaynestone ! ” 

“ What  can  you  mean?  ” ejaculated  Henry,  turning  red  and  then 
white. 

“ Your  own  conscience  must  supply  the  answer,  Henry.  You 
know  how  you  passed  yesterday  afternoon;  you  know  that  you  re- 
turned with  red  hands  and  a bruised  face  to  my  table,  to  my  hearth. 
You  may  yet,  if  you  care  to  escape  by  the  kitchen  door,  elude  the 
vigilance  of  the  police.  But  I do  not  advise  you  to  do  so.  I ad- 
vise you  to  surrender  as  quietly  as  possible,  and  I ask  you,  for  the 
sake  of  ancient  kindness  between  us,  to  bring  as  little  scandal  on 
this  roof  as  possible.  I will  go  to  your  poor  father  myself,  and 
break  the  matter  to  him  as  soon  as  you  are  gone.  In  the  mean 
time,  the  police — ” 

Henry  burst  into  a laugh— a loud,  harsh,  dreadful  laugh,  that 
penetrated  into  the  drawing-room,  and  startled  Lilian  and  her 
mother.  “ The  police  ! ” he  cried  ; “ what  have  they  to  do  with 
me  ? ” 

“ They  bring  a warrant  to  arrest  you  on  the  charge  of  willful 
murder.” 

“ This  is  nonsense ! ” cried  Henry.  “ Mr.  Maitland,  you  can  not 
take  the  matter  seriously ; you  must  know  that  there  is  some  absurd 
mistake.” 

“ God  help  us  all!  ” he  replied,  bursting  into  tears,  “I  wish  I 
did!  But  the  evidence  against  you  is  too  clear.” 

Henry  sat  down  once  more,  and  tried  to  collect  his  startled 
thoughts,  and  resist  the  strange  certainty  which  possessed  him  that 
the  knell  of  his  life  was  already  tolling.  He  lifted  his  eyes  involun- 
tarily, and  once  more  they  rested  upon  the  agony  which  was  beyond 
even  sinless  human  strength.  In  his  own  frame  he  felt  the  strong 
shudder  which  convulses  the  kneeling  figure  before  the  terrible, 
inevitable  cup ; a deep  and  solemn  calm  came  upon  him,  and  he 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


139 


began  to  think  more  clearly,  while  the  fierce  resentment  that  Mr. 
Maitland’s  unjust  suspicion  kindled  in  him  died  away  into  pain. 

“ You  will  break  it  gently  to  my  father?  ” he  said  quietly,  after 
a pause.  “ Tell  him  it  is  a mistake,  which  a few  words  will  prob- 
ably set  right.” 

“Your  poor  father!  And  Cyril,  my  poor  Cyril;  it  will  be  a 
cruel  blow  to  him  ! ” 

“I  hope  that — Lilian — and  Mrs.  Maitland — I trust  they  know 
nothing  of  this?  If  they  could  in  any  way  be  prevented  from 
knowing  the  object  of  these  men’s  presence,”  continued  Henry, 
when  he  was  interrupted  by  a knock  at  the  door. 

It  was  Eliza,  with  the  inspector  and  two  policemen  behind  her. 

“ Come  in,”  said  Everard ; and  they  entered  and  formally  ar- 
rested him. 

“ And  the  quieter  you  go  the  better,  sir,”  observed  the  inspector. 
“ The  fly  is  waiting  just  outside  the  gate  in  the  road.” 

“ Must  I go  through  the  hall?  ” asked  Everard. 

“I  fear  there  is  no  other  course,”  returned  Mr.  Maitland. 

“ I will  just  go  and  account  for  my  sudden  departure  to  the 
ladies,”  said  Everard ; but  the  inspector,  who  had  taken  certain 
steel  implements  from  his  pocket,  while  one  of  the  men  stood 
before  the  door,  here  informed  him  tliat  he  could  not  go  without 
his  escort  and  those  same  glittering  ornaments,  which  he  proceeded 
to  adjust  to  Henry’s  wrists  with  the  dexterity  of  long  practice. 

Like  one  in  a dream,  Henry  submitted  to  this  ignominy,  and 
saw  Mr.  Maitland  step  across  the  hall  and  carefully  close  the  draw- 
ing-room door,  while  Eliza  fetched  his  hat  and  coat;  and  thus, 
without  any  farew’ell,  he  walked  out  of  the  familiar  doors,  observ- 
ing as  he  went  the  three  troubled  pets,  the  dogs  giving  vent  to 
occasional  reproachful  growls,  and  the  cat  stalking  uneasily  about, 
and  uttering  a plaintive  mew  as  he  passed  him  ; and  he  felt  the  unac- 
customed touch  of  steel  on  his  wrists,  and  half  wondered  at  the 
strange  proximity  of  the  policemen  on  either  side  of  him.  As  he 
stepped  out  on  the  graveled  drive,  he  was  startled  to  see  a little 
figure  with  a white  face  spring  forward  and  leap  to  his  arms.  It 
was  poor  little  Winnie.,  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her. 

“ Don’t  be  frightened,  darling ; I shall  soon  be  back.  It  is  only 
a mistake,”  he  said,  touched  by  this  incident,  and  Mark  Antony’s 
sympathetic  mew;  “tell  Lilian  it  is  a mistake.” 

He  could  see  Lilian  through  the  side  of  the  bay-window  of  the 


140 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


drawing-room.  Her  face  was  turned  from  him,  and  she  was  tran- 
quilly reading  the  morning  paper,  which  did  not  reach  sequestered 
Malbourne  till  that  late  hour;  nevertheless,  he  was  glad  when  he 
was  outside  the  gate,  and  safely  hidden  from  her  sight  in  the  fly. 

The  village  was  full  of  life ; the  whole  population  had  apparently 
turned  out,  open-mouthed  and  interjectional,  to  see  and  discuss  the 
extraordinary  proceeding.  On  a little  patch  of  green  Everard  saw 
Lennie,  with  his  jacket  oflT,  engaged  in  flghting  with  Dickie  Stevens, 
who  was  apparently  getting  the  worst  of  it,  and  was,  indeed,  finally 
vanquished  after  a severe  battle.  The  unlucky  Dickie  had  alluded 
in  plain  and  unvarnished  terms  to  the  end  which  probably  awaited 
Dr.  Everard  in  consequence  of  his  imputed  crime ; hence  the  battle. 

The  forge  was  blazing  away,  but  the  clink  of  the  hammer  was 
unheard.  Straun  had  left  his  iron  half-shaped  on  the  anvil,  and 
stood  outside,  bare-armed  and  grimy,  ready  to  pull  off  his  brown- 
paper  cap  when  the  fly  passed ; and  Granfer  leaned  against  the  sill 
of  the  opened  window,  with  a countenance  expressive  of  the  deep- 
est wisdom,  and  shook  his  head  ominously.  It  was  not  for  a man 
of  his  knowledge  and  sagacity  to  betray  surprise ; he  had  evidently 
foreseen  and  predicted  the  event,  and  knew  more  about  its  probable 
termination  than  it  was  prudent  to  reveal.  The  usual  village  parlia- 
ment was  grouped  around  him,  with  its  hands  chiefly  in  its  pockets, 
and  its  countenance  distraught;  but  no  cap  was  lifted  when  the  fly 
passed  save  Straun’s.  That  and  a courtesy  from  a little  girl,  and  a 
slow  and  solemn  salute  from  Tom  Hale,  who  was  drawn  up  at  the 
corner  of  the  wheelwright’s  yard  with  a stiffness  and  precision 
which  suggested  the  presence  of  the  whole  British  army,  alone 
greeted  the  fallen  man. 

The  news  of  Lee’s  death  did  not  reach  Woodlands  till  the  after- 
noon, when  it  was  bruited  about  among  the  servants,  one  of  whom 
had  caught  various  strange  rumors  in  Oldport.  It  floated  up  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  it  aroused  but  a tepid  interest,  save  in  Marion. 
Cyril  agreed  with  her  that  it  was  very  sad  and  shocking,  but 
expressed  little  surprise,  or,  indeed,  interest. 

He  was  very  restless,  and,  as  the  afternoon  wore  on,  left  Marion, 
and  wandered  aimlessly  about,  in  .spite  of  the  fatigue  and  illness  of 
which  he  complained.  Every  sound  startled  him,  and  he  kept  look- 
ing expectantly  toward  the  gates,  till  about  four  o’clock,  when 
the  noise  of  wheels  caught  his  tense  hearing,  and  he  saw  his 
father  drive  up  to  the  door  in  the  little  pony-chaise.  Pie  made  one 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


141 


step  forward  to  meet  liim,  and  then  he  went  hack,  and  passing 
behind  some  laurels,  which  effectually  screened  him,  went  toward 
the  back  of  the  house,  and  paced  up  and  down  on  a terrace,  which 
commanded  a view  of  the  gray  sea,  turning  his  head  constantly 
toward  the  house,  whence  he  expected  a summons. 

Some  ten  minutes  passed,  and  no  one  sought  him.  To  Cyril  it 
was  an  eternity.  His  nervous  agitation  became  unbearable ; he 
was  consumed  with  inward  fever.  Nothing  was  heard  in  the  chill 
winter  afternoon,  save  the  heavy  boom  of  the  groundsw^ell,  which 
filled  all  the  air  with  a sullen,  steady  roar,  a roar  which  confused 
Cyril’s  senses  with  its  unceasing  thunder,  and  seemed  full  of  menace 
to  him.  The  sea,  which  was  about  half  a mile  from  the  grounds, 
was  coldly  gray,  and  looked,  with  its  calm  breadth  of  unruffled  sur- 
face, like  a sheet  of  steel.  The  sky  also  was  steely  gray,  save  in 
the  west,  where  the  departed  sun  had  left  some  pearl  and  opal 
gleam  in  the  cloud-rifts  ; there  was  no  wind,  and  the  frost  still  held. 
Cyril  bared  his  hot  forehead  to  the  still  winter  air,  and  some  broken 
words  of  prayer  escaped  him. 

“I  would  have  atoned,”  he  murmured — “I  would  have  atoned 
at  any  price,  but  it  was  not  possible;  the  wrong  is  irreparable. 
Take  Thou  the  will  and  the  broken  heart  of  contrition.” 

Then  some  sound  smote  upon  his  hearing  above  the  august  thun- 
der of  the  unquiet  sea,  and  he  replaced  his  hat  and  turned  toward 
the  house.  But  no  one  came  forth,  and  the  sea  went  on  booming 
heavily  as  before,  only,  to  Cyril’s  vexed  spirit,  it  seemed  that  its 
hoarse  roar  rose  to  a deafening  intensity,  like  the  trouble  in  his 
breast. 

“ If  it  were  but  over!  ” he  murmured.  “I  can  not  endure  this 
suspense ; ” and  he  turned  half  staggering  and  entered  the  conserv- 
atory, where  he  was  still  alone.  He  felt  very  ill,  and  wondered 
if  some  deadly  sickness  were  about  to  fall  on  him.  Body  and  mind 
alike  seemed  failing  under  the  heavy  burden  he  bore.  He  leant  his 
elbows  on  the  bench  and  supported  his  head  on  his  hands,  gazing 
through  some  bright  flowers  out  on  the  pitiless  sea,  and  sighed  out 
that  he  could  not  bear  it,  that  he  wished  all  were  over,  and  himself 
at  rest  from  the  dreadful  stress  of  life. 

A sharp  pruning-knife  lay  near  him ; his  eye  rested  longingly 
upon  it,  and  he  thought  how  easily  it  would  still  the  terrible  tumult 
within.  No  pain;  only  a pin-prick,  as  it  were— he  knew  exactly 
where  to  strike ; Everard  showed  him  one  day  when  they  were  dis- 


142 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


cussing  the  subject — then,  a bright,  warm  jet  of  blood ; a growing 
languor,  deepening  into  an  eternal  sleep.  He  put  forth  his  hand 
and  touched  the  knife,  even  felt  its  edge,  and  then  dropped  it  with 
a shudder,  and  betook  himself  to  prayer.  And  in  his  prayer  he 
vowed  a passionate  vow,  were  he  once  delivered  from  this  impend- 
ing terror,  to  consecrate  his  life  anew  to  his  great  and  sacred  calling, 
and  to  devote  body,  soul,  and  spirit  with  unsparing  vigor  to  that 
one  supreme  cause.  Calm  fell  upon  him  then,  and  he  heard  the 
footsteps  of  the  approaching  messenger  with  a serene  face.  It  was 
only  a servant,  with  a quiet,  everyday  countenance. 

The  admiral  wishes  to  see  you  in  the  library  at  once,  sir,”  he 

said. 

The  admiral!  Cyril  turned  sick.  Why  not  his  own  father? 
Was  it  so  bad  as  that?  He  walked,  however,  quietly  through  the 
darkening  house,  and  entered  the  well-known  door  of  the  library 
with  a calm  face.  A servant  had  just  placed  a lamp  on  a table  be- 
fore the  fire,  the  ruddy  blaze  of  which  danced  over  the  room  with 
fantastic  cheerfulness.  George  and  Keppel  were  standing  on  the 
hearth-rug,  asking  each  other  what  had  happened.  Their  presence 
steadied  Cyril,  and  conveyed  a vague  comfort  to  him. 

“I  say,  Cyril,”  observed  Keppel,  in  his  strong,  cheery  voice, 
“there’s  a row  of  some  kind  ; all  hands  piped.  What  the  deuce  is 
your  governor  up  to  ? ” 

The  door  of  an  inner  room,  the  admiral’s  special  sanctuary, 
opened,  and  he  came  forth,  acompanied  by  Mr.  Maitland,  who  was 
too  troubled  to  exchange  any  greeting  with  the  young  men. 

“Well,  my  lads,”  said  the  admiral,  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  fireplace,  and  plunging  at  once  into  the  subject,  “here’s  the 
devil  to  pay.  Maitland  says  that  Swaynestone’s  coachman  was 
murdered  last  night — ” 

“ Murdered  1 ” cried  Cyril,  springing  from  the  chair  into  which 
he  had  dropped  his  weary,  aching  frame. 

“ Murdered  ! ” echoed  George  and  Keppel,  in  varying  degrees  of 
horror.  ' 

“ My  dear  Everard,”  interposed  Mr.  Maitland,  “ you  are  so  pre- 
cipitate. Spare  the  young  men ; break  it  gently.” 

“ Gently ! By  George,  Maitland,  murder  is  murder,  and  a 
damned  ugly  thing,  however  you  break  it ! ” retorted  the  honest 
admiral,  who  had  by  no  means  enjoyed  Mr.  Maitland’s  kind  endeav- 
ors to  break  it  gently.  “ The  women  will  have  to  be  told  ; some" 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


143 


body  had  better  break  it  to  them,”  he  added,  passing  his  hand 
thoughtfully  over  his  fresh-colored,  weather-beaten  face,  while  Cyril 
shuddered  with  a sick  apprehension.  “ It’s  no  use  beating  about 
the  bush,  lads,”  he  continued,  in  his  impetuous  manner;  “the  long 
and  the  short  of  it  is,  Henry  is  arrested  for  murder.” 

“ Henry  ! ” cried  the  three.  “ By  Jove ! ” added  Keppel ; ‘‘  My 
dear  father  I ” added  George ; while  Cyril  burst  into  a hysteric  laugk 
‘‘Nonsense!  the  thing  is  impossible,  absurd,  ridiculous.  What  ass 
arrested  him  ? ” he  burst  out. 

“Stand  by,  Cyril.  You  side  with  your  friend,  of  course.  Hear 
the  rest.  Tell  them,  Maitland,”  expostulated  the  admiral. 

“Do  you  mean  to  say,  sir,  that  you  think  him  guilty?  ” asked 
Keppel,  fiercely. 

“ My  dear  Keppel,”  returned  Mr.  Maitland.  “I  would  give  the 
remainder  of  my  life  not  to  believe  it.  I have  passed  the  whole 
morning  with  Sir  Lionel,  and  I have  heard  such  evidence  as  places 
it  beyond  a doubt.” 

Keppel  swore  steadily  and  intensely  for  some  seconds,  while 
George  quoted  Scripture  at  the  same  rate.  Mr.  Maitland  thought 
that  of  the  two  he  preferred  Keppel’s  observations.  Cyril  dropped 
into  an  arm-chair,  and  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast. 

“ Steady,  lad,  steady  I ” exclaimed  the  admiral,  approaching  him. 
“We  must  stand  to  our  guns.” 

“Brandy,”  murmured  Cyril,  faintly. 

“He  has  been  ill,”  said  Mr.  Maitland,  apologizing  for  his  son’s 
weakness;  while  the  admiral  plunged  into  his  sanctuary,  and  issued 
thence  bearing  some  excellent  rum  in  a little  glass,  and  poured  it 
into  Cyril’s  white  lips. 

“ What  the  deuce  did  you  mean  by  swearing  before  the  clergy, 
Keppel?”  he  asked,  while  doing  this  kind  oflSce. 

“I  am  unwell;  I have  a heavy  cold,”  gasped  Cyril,  reviving. 
“ It  is  nonsense  about  Henry.  Where  is  he  ? ” 

“ We  must  bail  him  at  once,”  said  Keppel,  when  be  heard  that 
his  brother  was  actually  in  custody  at  that  moment ; but  Mr.  Mait- 
land reminded  him  that  this  course  was  impossible,  while  George 
groaned  and  observed  parenthetically  that  Henry  needed  a fall  to 
bring  him  to  a serious  state  of  mind. 

“Serious!  ” echoed  the  admiral.  “You  may  depend  upon  it, 
the  poor  beggar  feels  serious  enough.  Well,  he  was  the  only  boy 
1 never  flogged  of  you  all.  He  was  such  a little  chap  when  his  poor 
10 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


another — Damnation,  George ! if  you  spare  the  rod  you  spoil  the 
child!  ” cried  the  poor  man,  turning  aside  to  dash  a couple  of  tears 
from  his  eyes,  ‘‘  The  Bible  tells  you  that.” 

‘‘  True,  most  true,”  returned  George,  conscious  of  having  received 
a Benjamin’s  portion  of  the  paternal  rod. 

“ The  question  is,  what  is  to  be  done?  ” said  the  practical  Kep- 
pel,  who  was  pacing  the  library  with  a wide  balance  of  limb,  as  if 
the  carpet  were  liable  to  rise  in  waves  and  upset  him. 

‘‘Exactly,”  returned  the  admiral,  with  an  air  of  relief.  “ How 
can  we  get  him  out  of  this  hole,  Maitland?  We  must  spend  all 
we’ve  got  to  get  him  off  and  save  the  family  lionor.  What’s  the 
first  step  ? To  London  for  a lawyer  ? And  1 sail  on  the  third,  and 
so  does  Keppel;  and  then  Leslie  is  off  to  India.  By  Jove!  it’s  the 
devil’s  own  luck;  nobody  but  a parson  left  to  look  after  the  family, 
and  I put  George  into  the  Church — meaning  no  disrespect,  gentle- 
men— because  be  was  the  fool  of  the  family.” 

“ It  is  too  ridiculous  to  take  this  seriously,”  said  Cyril.  “ The 
inquest  will,  of  course,  set  Henry  free.  He  will  prove  an  alibi,,  or 
these  thick-headed  rustics  will  have  sufficent  sense  to  bring  in  a 
verdict  of  accidental  death.  What  more  probable  than  that  Lee — 
in  trouble,  and  probably  a little  tipsy — should  slip  in  a wood  on  a 
dark  night  and  fall  heavily  ? ” 

“ But,”  replied  Mr.  Maitland,  who  did  not  remember  that  Cyril 
could  have  heard  nothing  about  a wood,  “ a man  can  not  drag  him- 
self for  yards  into  the  underwood  after  receiving  a mortal  blow  on 
the  head.” 

“ Who  says  he  was  dragged  ? ” asked  Cyril,  quickly. 

“ There  are  the  marks  on  the  frosted  moss  and  grass.  I saw 
them  myself,”  said  his  father;  and  he  went  on  to  place  further 
evidence  before  them,  while  Cyril  listened  with  a beating  heart  and 
gathering  dread. 

“ Good  heavens ! ” he  cried  at  last,  “ don’t  you  all  see  that  it  is 
morally  impossible  for  a man  of  Henry’s  character  to  commit  such 
a crime?  Even  if  Lee  were  killed,  Henry  had  no  hand  in  it.” 

“Henry  is  as  honest  a fellow  as  ever  stepped,  Cyril,”  said  Kep- 
pel; “but,  you  see,  women  are  the  very  deuce.  The  best  of  men 
may  be  led  on  to  anything,  once  he  gets  hung  up  in  an  affair  of  that 
kind.” 

“ An  excuse  as  old  as  Adam’s  iniquity,”  sighed  Mr.  Mait- 
land. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


145 


“ Henry  had  nothing  to  do  with  that  miserable  business,”  cried 
Cyril ; “ I would  stake  my  life  on  it.” 

‘‘Stand  up  for  your  friend,  my  lad,”  said  the  admiral.  “He 
would  be  a doctor ; and  I won’t  deny  that  a surgeon  is  useful  after 
a general  engagement;  but  then,  he  would  not  even  enter  the  serv-, 
ice.  Doctoring  is  bad  for  the  morals ; all  this  poking  and  prying 
into  dead  bodies  is  an  infernal  business  not  fit  for  a gentleman. 
Those  very  clever  doctors  are  a bad  lot,  most  of  them  in  league  with 
the  devil.  George  said  in  his  last  sermon  that  the  Almighty  sends 
sickness  as  a punishment  for  sin,  and  it  is  a clear  flying  in  the  face 
of  Providence  to  make  people  healthy.” 

“ My  dear  father ! ” remonstrated  George,  who  was  not  pre- 
pared for  such  an  application  of  his  sermon,  flattering  though  it 
were. 

“ Yes,  yes,  you  said  so  in  the  pulpit,  and  you  are  not  in  the  pul- 
pit now,”  proceeded  the  admiral,  with  a fine  distinction  between 
the  preacher  and  the  man.  “Now  for  action,  lads.  When  does 
this  damned  thing  take  place,  Maitland?  ” 

“The  inquest  will  be  held  to-morrow,  admiral;  but  the  verdict 
may  not  be  given  for  some  days.  In  the  mean  time,  we  must  try  to 
get  all  the  evidence  in  Henry’s  favor  that  we  can.  Lilian  saw  him 
return,  but  refuses  to  swear  to  it.  She  actually  disbelieves  the  evi- 
dence of  her  senses.” 

“Poor  Lilian,”  murmured  Cyril,  with  a kind  of  sob. 

“ Oh,  the  women ! ” groaned  the  admiral.  “ George,  go  and 
break  it;  it  is  parson’s  work.  Poor  little  Marion!  you  had  better 
tackle  her,  Cyril.” 

“ A solicitor  must  be  procured  to  watch  the  case  on  Henry’s 
behalf  at  the  inquest,”  said  Mr.  Maitland.  “I  suppose  Weston 
would  be  the  man;  he  is  your  man  of  business,  I think.” 

“ Just  so,”  replied  the  admiral,  instantly  ringing  the  bell  to  order 
a carriage.  “ I’ll  go  at  once.  By  George ! I had  forgotten  the  dance. 
Half  the  county  will  be  here  in  a couple  of  hours.” 

The  consultation  was  at  an  end,  and  the  meeting  broke  up,  and 
Cyril,  with  a strange  feeling  of  relief,  went  to  Marion  and  told  her 
what  had  occurred,  while  George  did  the  same  with  the  other 
ladies,  who  somehow  had  the  tidings  conveyed  to  the  people  stay- 
ing in  the  house. 

Breaking  the  news  to  Marion  was  not  all  pain ; in  fact,  it  brought 
a wonderful  solace  to  Cyril’s  troubled  soul.  He  spent  the  evening 


146 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


alone  with  her,  and  so  exerted  himself  to  convince  her  of  hei 
brother’s  perfect  innocence  and  probable  speedy  release,  that  he 
went  to  bed  with  a lightened  heart,  and  slept  as  no  one  else  slept 
that  night  beneath  the  admiral’s  roof,  the  sleep  of  exhaustion, 
dreamless  and  perfect  as  that  of  an  infant. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

In  those  days  of  unutterable  amazement,  Everard  began  to  doubt 
his  own  identity.  On  the  first  day  of  the  inquest  he  received  an 
affectionate  letter  from  Cyril,  treating  the  affair  of  his  imprison- 
ment  as  a mistake,  which  a brief  investigation  would  speedily  clear 
up. 

Then  came  the  succession  of  surprises  which  the  inquest  brought, 
as  witness  after  witness  came  forward  and  swore  to  actions  of  his 
which  he  had  never  so  much  as  contemplated  in  imagination. 

After  the  evidence  of  those  who  discovered  poor  Lee,  and  that 
of  the  surgeon,  Mrs.  Lee  was  the  first  witness.  She  last  saw  her 
husband  alive  at  dinner-time,  after  which  he  left  her  to  return  to 
the  stables,  she  said.  She  left  the  Temple  for  Malbourne  soon  after 
three,  and,  on  returning  through  the  fields  at  about  a quarter  to  five, 
she  saw  Dr.  Everard  spring  over  a hurdle  leading  into  the  fatal 
copse,  and  walk  hurriedly  along  toward  Malbourne.  Although  the 
moon  was  but  just  risen,  she  made  him  out  distinctly  by  his  gray  suit. 
He  had  no  stick  in  his  hand,  and,  though  he  passed  within  half  a dozen 
yards,  did  not  appear  to  see  her,  and  took  no  notice  of  her  saluta- 
tion. Her  husband  was  a steady  and  sober  man,  but  had  of  late 
been  much  depressed  on  account  of  family  troubles;  had  been 
especially  vexed  at  dinner-time,  and  had  eaten  little.  When  asked 
what  had  distressed  Lee,  she  replied  that  he  had  some  difference 
with  his  daughter,  whom  he  had  discovered  with  Dr.  Everard  at 
midday. 

Sir  Lionel  Swaynestone  stated  that  he  had  last  seen  Lee  at 
eleven  in  the  forenoon ; had  known  him  all  his  life  as  a sober  and 
industrious  man  and  good  servant. 

Judkins  described  the  hour  and  manner  of  his  finding  Lee’s 
body.  He  had  last  seen  him  alive  at  three  o’clock,  when  Lee  told 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


147 


him  that  Dr.  Everard  would  be  somewhere  near  the  Temple  that 
afternoon,  and  that  he  intended,  if  possible,  to  meet  him,  and 
threaten  him  with  exposure  unless  he  consented  to  repair  the  wrong 
he  had  done  his  child. 

Everard’s  solicitor  here  interposed  to  ask  the  nature  of  that 
wrong,  and  Lee’s  grounds  for  suspecting  Everard  of  it,  when,  to  his 
own  deep  amazement  as  well  as  Everard’s,  he  was  told  that  Everard 
and  Alma  had  been  seen  together  in  the  copse  by  both  Lee  and 
Judkins  on  the  very  morning  of  Lee’s  death;  and,  further,  that  he, 
Judkins,  had  witnessed  several  clandestine  meetings  between  them 
during  Mrs.  Lee’s  illness  in  the  spring.  In  the  subsequent  trial  be- 
fore the  magistrates,  Judkins  further  witnessed  to  meetings  at  speci- 
fied times,  and  to  gifts  of  flowers  exchanged  between  Everard  and 
Alma.  A book  of  poems,  found  in  Everard’s  room  at  the  Rectory, 
was  produced,  inscribed,  “For  Alma  Lee,  with  best  New  Year’s 
v/ishes,  from  H.  E.”  Judkins  also  swore  that  letters  bad  passed 
between  them. 

The'  solicitor  having  asked  Judkins  if  Lee  had  not  threatened 
violence  toward  Everard,  he  replied  that  he  only  threatened  to  as- 
sault the  prisoner  in  case  he  refused  to  do  justice  to  his  daughter. 

Judkins  further  deposed  that,  on  returning  from  the  downs  with 
some  horses  he  had  been  exercising  at  a little  after  four  on  the  fatal 
afternoon,  he  had  seen  the  prisoner  enter  the  copse.  On  being  sub- 
sequently asked  by  Everard  how  he  had  missed  Mr.  Swaynestone, 
who  was  riding  toward  the  downs  at  the  same  time,  he  replied  that 
he  had  drawn  up  for  some  minutes  behind  a screen  of  hazels,  while 
Mr.  Swaynestone  was  passing  in  the  open.  He  did  not  until  the 
Assize  trial  add  that  he  did  this  to  watch  the  meeting  of  the  gray 
figure  with  Alma. 

John  Nobbs,  a stable  help,  deposed  to  parting  with  Lee  on  the 
high-road  outside  the  gate  at  three  o’clock ; the  witness  was  start- 
ing for  Oldport  on  foot,  Lee  walked  up  the  meadow  toward  his 
home.  Lee  carried  no  stick,  and  was  quite  sober. 

Several  Swaynestone  servants  witnessed  having  seen  Lee  about 
the  place  before  three  o’clock ; after  which  hour  no  one  appeared 
to  have  seen  him  alive, 

Ingram  Swaynestone  bore  witness  to  Lee’s  character;  he  saw 
him  last  alive  at  the  stables  at  two  o’clock.  At  twenty  minutes 
past  four,  or  thereabouts,  Ingram  rode  across  the  meadow  in  which 
the  Temple  stood,  at  a canter,  on  his  way  across  the  downs  to  Shot- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


148  * 

over,  when  he  saw  Everard  walking  quickly  along  a hedgerow  in 
the  direction  of  Temple  Copse.  He  was  dressed  in  gray,  carried  a 
stick,  and  made  no  reply  to  Swaynestone’s  shouted  greeting,  beyond 
a wave  of  his  hand.  On  returning  through  Malbourne,  at  ten  min- 
utes to  live,  Swaynestone  again  saw  Everard  walking  in  the  moon- 
light across  the  field,  at  the  corner  of  which  the  Malbourne  sign- 
post stood.  He  reined  in  his  horse,  and  called  out  to  him;  but 
Everard  went  hurriedly  on,  not  appearing  to  see  or  hear  him.  The 
road  was  some  fifty  yards  from  the  path  Everard  was  pursuing,  and 
the  field  was  higher  than  the  road. 

William  Grove  had  seen  Everard  at  the  same  place  and  time. 
He  expressed  wonder  to  Jim,  his  mate,  that  Dr.  Everard,  at  the 
sound  of  the  wagon-bells — since  he  was  then  returning  from  Oldport 
with  his  team — and  his  own  Good  night,  doctor,”  did  not  come  to 
receive  a parcel  the  wagoner  was  bringing  him  from  Oldport,  and 
respecting  the  instant  delivery  of  which  he  had  been  most  solicitous. 
All  this  Jim  Downer  corroborated. 

Stevens,  the  sexton,  said  that  about  sunset,  or  later,  he  was  in 
the  churchyard,  and  saw  a figure  in  a gray  suit,  which  he  recog- 
nized as  Dr.  Everard’s,  leave  the  back  premises  of  the  Eectory, 
and  ascend  the  hill  in  the  direction  of  Swaynestone.  He  carried  a 
stick. 

Straun,  the  blacksmith,  on  the  other  hand,  swore  that  he  saw 
Everard  pass  through  the  village  street  by  the  forge  at  that  hour, 
or  a little  before.  He  was  uncertain  about  his  clothes,  but  swore  to 
the  stick. 

A Swaynestone  keeper  saw  Everard  a little  later  in  a plantation 
on  the  upland.  He  described  his  gray  suit  and  stick;  he  was  not 
near  enough  to  speak  to  him.  K shepherd,  cutting  turnips  in  a field 
near,  swore  that  Everard  passed  him  at  four  o’clock,  and  stopped 
a moment  to  chat  with  him.  He  was  not  sure  about  his  clothes  ; 
thought  they  were  gray.  Everard  had  a stick,  also  some  very  good 
tobacco,  of  which  he  gave  him  some.  He  told  the  shepherd  that  he 
was  going  across  the  downs  to  Widow  Dove’s.  Dr.  Everard  won- 
dered that  two  lone  women  should  live  up  there  in  the  solitary  cot- 
tage, he  said. 

Eliza,  the  parlor-maid,  bore  witness  that  Everard  was  at  the 
Eectory  between  three  and  four ; he  was  in  the  drawing-room  wfith 
her  mistress  when  she  showed  some  visitors  in.  She  saw  no  more 
till  about  five,  when  he  entered  softly  and  hurriedly  by  the  back 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


149 


door,  and  ran  across  the  back  hall  in  the  dusk.  Miss  Maitland  was 
leaving  the  kitchen  at  that  time,  and  also  saw  Dr.  Everard,  whose 
figure  was  clearly  shown  by  the  light  issuing  from  the  kitchen. 
Miss  Maitland  called  to  him,  “ Henry,  was  Mrs.  Dove  at  home?” 
hut  he  made  no  answer,  ran  up  stairs  and  locked  himself  in.  The 
cook  also  saw  Dr.  Everard  at  that  hour,  and  heard  Miss  Maitland 
speak  to  him.  Miss  Maitland  was  rebuking  the  witness  for  not 
having  lighted  the  hall  lamp.  Eliza  next  saw  Everard  an  hour  later. 
He  came  into  the  kitchen  with  his  hand  to  his  face,  and  asked  the 
cook  for  some  raw  meat  to  save  him  from  a black  eye.  Martha, 
the  house-maid,  said,  “ Oh,  sir,  what  an  eye  you  will  have  ! ” He 
replied,  “I  hope  not;  there  is  nothing  like  raw  meat.”  Cook 
laughed,  and  said,  “One  would  think  you  had  been  in  the  wars,  sir.. 
Have  you  had  a fall  ? ” He  seemed  confused,  and  said,  “I  don’t 
know.  At  least,  I ran  up  against  a tree  in  the  dark.”  At  dinner 
he  told  Mr.  Maitland  that  he  knocked  his  face  against  a door,  and 
made  signs  to  Miss  Winnie  not  to  tell.  When  he  came  into  the 
kitchen,  Eliza  heard  him  say  something  to  Miss  Winnie  about  not 
telling.  He  seemed  excited  and  confused  at  dinner.  This  evidence 
of  Eliza’s,  given  briefly  at  the  inquest,  only  came  out  in  full  at  the 
trial  in  Oldport  Town  Hall,  when  it  was  corroborated  by  the  other 
maids. 

Granfer  was  produced  on  the  second  day  of  the  inquiry,  and, 
with  an  irrepressible  circumlocution  which  nearly  drove  the  jury 
beside  themselves,  witnessed  meeting  Henry  at  the  wheelwright’s 
corner  at  five  o’clock  ; he  was  inclined  to  believe  that  he  wore  the 
fatal  gray  suit,  since  he  and  Straun  and  several  others  had  seen  and 
commented  on  it  in  the  forenoon. 

What  bewildered  Everard  most  was  the  evidence  of  things 
against  him.  The  house-maid  witnessed,  with  tears,  to  finding 
bloody  water  in  his  hand-basin,  and  seeing  the  garments  hanging  to 
dry.  The  suit  was  produced,  and  bore  other  stains,  which  Henry 
had  not  observed  by  candle-light.  He  saw  stains  of  earth,  as  well 
as  those  darker  marks  ; bits  of  moss  and  dead  leaves  caught  in  the 
rough  woolen  material : the  badly  sponged  spot  he  had  seen  at  mid- 
day ; and,  more  surprising  still,  a slight  rent  at  the  armhole,  as  if  the 
sleeve  had  been  torn  in  a struggle. 

Buried  among  dead  leaves  and  moss,  the  police  found  a hand- 
kerchief of  Everard’s,  bearing  the  ominous  crimson  stains.  Far- 
ther off,  among  thick  holly-bushes,  they  found  a stick,  which  the 


150 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


doctor  said  might  have  dealt  the  fatal  blow.  Mr.  Maitland  identified 
the  stick — a thick  bamboo,  with  a loaded  top — as  his  property.  It 
remained  usually  in  the  hall,  and  was  used  by  the  family  generally. 
Everard  had  taken  it  in  the  forenoon  on  his  walk  with  the  twins,  as 
many  people  could  witness.  In  Lee’s  pocket  they  found  the  two 
halves  of  the  letter  Alma  had  dropped  in  the  forenoon.  It  was 
written  on  good  note-paper,  from  the  top  of  which  an  embossed 
heading  had  been  hastily  torn,  so  hastily  that  some  of  the  end  letters 
remained  thus : rne.^-  Similar  paper  was  taken  from  a blotting-case 
used  chiefly  by  visitors  with  the  full  address,  “ The  Eectory, 
Malbourne.”  The  handwriting,  evidently  feigned,  was  afterward 
submitted  to  an  expert,  and  compared  with  various  specimens  of 
Everard’s  writing. 

Lee’s  watch,  purse,  etc.,  were  found  upon  him ; and,  what  puzzled 
Everard  strangely,  a leather  bag  containing  fifty  pounds  in  gold, 
which  had  been  stamped  upon  by  a heavy  foot,  was  found  on  the 
hard  path  some  yards  from  the  body.  It  was  impossible  to  idej^- 
tify  this,  as  it  had  no  marks,  and  was  one  of  those  commonly  used 
by  bankers  to  serve  their  customers  with  gold ; it  was  evidently, 
from  its  dull  gray  color,  an  old  one,  which  had  passed  through  many 
hands.  At  the  subsequent  trial  it  was  suggested  that  this  money, 
so  carefully  arranged  to  defy  identification,  had  been  offered  to  Lee 
as  the  price  of  his  silence,  and  by  him  indignantly  rejected,  and 
had  been  forgotten  by  the  criminal  in  his  agitation  after  the 
deed. 

Everard’s  own  statement  was  simple  enough.  He  could  merely  say 
that,  wearing  the  clothes  in  which  he  then  stood,  a prisoner,  he  had 
left  the  Rectory  at  about  sundown — the  exact  hour  he  had  not 
observed — and,  passing  through  the  village,  where  he  exchanged  a 
brief  salutation  with  Straun,  who  was  standing  alone  outside  the 
forge,  which  was  closed  for  the  night,  had  walked  through  the 
fields  as  far  as  the  fatal  copse.  There  he  had  turned  oflT  and  struck 
across  the  down  to  the  solitary  cottage  known  far  and  near  as  Widow 
Dove’s.  He  remembered  meeting  no  one  save  the  shepherd,  hut 
had  seen  a man  exercising  two  horses  in  the  distance  when  on  the 
open  down.  He  was  not  near  enough  to  recognize  the  rider,  but 
concluded  that  he  was  a groom  from  Swaynestone  or  Northover. 

He  found  the  widow’s  hut  empty,  with  no  smoke  issuing  from 
the  chimney,  and  no  light  in  either  window,  and  returned  by  a dif- 
ferent path,  which  he  described,  meeting  no  human  being  till  ho 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


151 


descended  into  the  liigli-road  at  Malbourne  Cross,  and  spoke  to 
Granfer  (whose  legal  designation  was  Isaac  Hale,  by  the  way) ; he 
did  not  remember  what  he  said  at  this  interview,  save  that  he  asked 
if  Long’s  bell- team  had  passed.  Going  on  in  the  dark  to  Long’s 
farm,  which  was  approached  by  a by-road  at  right  angles  to  the 
highway,  he  found  a little  girl  sitting  on  the  doorstep  of  Grove’s 
cottage,  which  was  just  outside  the  farm  gate,  and  learnt  from  her 
that  Grove  was  gone  to  the  Eectory  with  a parcel. 

His  return  at  six,  his  romp  with  Winnie,  and  its  consequences, 
he  described;  and,  although  cautioned  that  what  he  said  would  be 
put  in  evidence  against  him,  deposed  to  finding  blood  on  his  clothes, 
and  sponging  it  away,  but  expressed  himself  unable  to  account  for 
its  presence.  He  had  never  quarreled  with  Lee,  whom  he  had 
known  and  respected  all  his  life.  He  had  last  seen  him  alive  on 
Sunday  in  church,  and  had  last  spoken  to  him  on  the  previous  Sat- 
urday. He  was  too  indignant  at  the  imputation  respecting  Alma 
to  deny  it,  but  he  denied  having  met  her  on  the  31st,  admitting  that* 
he  was  in  the  copse  at  the  alleged  hour,  but  saying  nothing  about 
Lilian  being  with  him,  since  he  could  not  endure  the  idea  of  drag- 
ging her  name  into  such  associations.  He  heard  of  Lee’s  death  first 
on  the  morning  of  New  Year’s  Day. 

He  almost  smiled  when,  at  the  close  of  the  wearisome  inquiry, 
the  jury  returned  a verdict  of  Willful  Murder  against  him. 

Admiral  Everard  and  Keppel  received  the  intelligence  by  tele- 
gram just  as  the  squadron  was  leaving  Spithead.  Leslie  was  already 
on  his  way  to  India,  and  so  heard  nothing. 

The  trial  before  the  magistrates  seemed  to  Everard  but  a weary 
repetition  of  the  inquest  nightmare^ 

The  same  witnesses  appeared  with  the  same  evidence  in  fuller 
detail.  The  surgeon,  a Dr.  Eastbrook,  who  had  attended  the 
Swaynestone  people  ever  since  he  began  to  practice,  confirmed  the 
evidence  touching  Lee’s  good  health  and  regular  and  abstemious 
habits,  and  was  borne  out  by  a second  surgeon,  who  had  assisted 
him  in  a post-mortem  examination.  Both  surgeons  witnessed  to 
contusions  and  other  signs  of  struggle;  they  were  unanimous  in 
ascribing  the  death  to  a blow  not  self-inflicted,  and  both  were  of 
opinion  that  Lee’s  assailant  must  have  been  a man  of  considerable 
muscular  power,  Lee  himself  being  a powerful  man  scarcely  past 
the  prime  of  life.  In  cross-examination,  they  admitted  that  a 
knowledge  of  anatomy  would  indicate  the  part  behind  the  ear  as 


152 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


one  for  a fatal  blow.  Poor  Mr.  Maitland  gave  evidence  to  Heni7’s 
spotless  character,  and  was  much  dismayed  at  finding  himself  led 
into  giving  damaging  statements  of  Everard’s  extreme  eagerness  to 
attend  Mrs.  Lee  in  the  previous  spring,  and  his  frequent  visits  to  the 
Temple.  He  was  equally  dismayed  at  the  damaging  effect  of  his 
evidence  touching  Everard’s  demeanor  at  dinner  with  regard  to  the 
black  eye.  Granfer  also  contrived  to  effect  a little  more  mischief  in 
the  town  hall. 

Granfer  was  disgusted  to  observe  that  Sir  Lionel,  who  was  a 
witness,  was  not  on  the  bench,  and  that  a mere  lad  of  some  forty 
summers,  a pompous  man  of  commercial  extraction,  for  whom  the 
old  aristocrat  had  the  heartiest  contempt,  played  the  leading  part 
on  that  august  eminence.  He  therefore  put  on  his  most  stolid  look, 
and  acted  as  if  extremely  hard  of  hearing  as  well  as  comprehension, 
and  contrived  to  impress  Mr.  Browne-Stockham  with  the  idea  that 
he  was  past  giving  evidence.  The  magistrate,  moreover,  was  fully 
impressed  with  a conviction  of  Everard’s  guilt,  which  impression  he 
had  derived  from  Sir  Lionel,  who  was  furious  with  indignation  at 
the  guilt  and  hypocrisy  which  had  brought  about  the  tragedy,  and 
had  made  him  accuse  and  suspect  his  own  son  amid  all  kinds  of 
domestic  discord,  and  was  disposed  to  believe  anything  of  the  man 
who  sat  at  his  board  one  day  and  killed  his  beloved  and  trusted 
servant  the  next.  Mr.  Browne-Stockham,  therefore,  after  many 
vain  attempts,  succeeded  in  getting  Granfer,  whose  mental  impene- 
trability caused  innumerable  titters  in  the  court,  to  reply  to  his 
question  if  he  understood  the  nature  of  an  oath. 

“A  oath,”  returned  Granfer  at  last,  with  an  air  of  matchless 
vacuity,  “ a oath,”  he  repeated  in  his  slow  way,  as  he  scratched  his 
head  and  slowly  looked  round  the  court — “ ay,  I hreckon  I under- 
stand the  nature  of  they.  I’ve  a yeerd  more  oaths  in  a hour  than 
you  could  swear  in  a day.  Ay,”  he  continued  after  a pause,  during 
which  an  explosion  of  laughter  from  the  court  was  angrily  subdued, 
and  looking  more  helplessly  vacant  than  ever,  “ my  master  was  the 
sweariest  man  you  ever  see.  I’ve  a yeerd  more  oaths  than  you’ve 
got  zuvverins  avore  you  was  barned — or  thought  on,  for  that  mat- 
ter,” he  added,  with  a sudden  gleam  of  inane  self-complacency  in 
the  eyes  he  directed  upon  the  indignant  magistrate,  who  muttered 
that  the  old  fool  was  in  his  dotage,  while  the  court  again  exploded 
with  laughter,  as  courts  so  easily  do. 

‘‘Do  you  know,”  Mr.  Browne-Stockham  asked,  in  his  most  pornp^ 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


153 


ous  manner,  when  order  was  once  more  restored,  ‘‘in  whose 
presence  you  stand  ? ” 

Granfer  once  more  looked  round  in  his  slow  way,  with  an 
expression  half-way  between  an  owl  and  an  idiot,  and  replied, 
without  t^ie  faintest  quiver  of  a facial  muscle,  “ I ain’t  a zeen  none 
of  ’em  avore,  as  I knows  on ; athout,”  he  added,  brightening  up 
suddenly,  “athout  it’s  Sir  Lionel.  I knows  he  well  enough. 
Knowed  his  vather  avore  ’un.  Vine  vigure  of  a man  lie  was.” 

Here  Granfer’s  evidence  was  lost  in  such  a roar  that  the  magis- 
trate was  driven  to  the  verge  of  frenzy,  and  threatened  to  clear  the 
court.  Finally,  Isaac  Hale,  aged  ninety-six,  was  duly  sworn,  and 
was  rather  severely  handled  while  giving  his  evidence  as  to  his 
meeting  Everard  at  five  o’clock,  the  very  hour  at  which  the  maids 
swore  to  his  return  by  the  back  way  to  the  Kectory. 

Everard  had  given  him  a shilling  to  drink  his  health  with,  he 
said,  and  had  further  bestowed  some  tobacco  upon  him.  For  the 
consideration  of  a shilling,  it  was  suggested,  an  aged  rustic  might 
well  make  a mistake  as  to  the  exact  hour  of  meeting  a friend  on  the 
highway.  Mr.  Browne-Stockham,  moreover,  was  convinced,  from 
Granfer’s  Brutus-like  affectation  of  imbecility  later  on,  that  the  old 
man  was  in  collusion  with  the  accused. 

Mrs.  Lee  and  Judkins  both  bore  witness  to  the  exchange  of  high 
words  between  Everard  and  Lee  at  their  chance  meeting  on  the 
Saturday,  Lee  having  gone  home  in  great  excitement  and  told  them 
that  he  had  forbidden  Everard  his  house.  Cyril  was  summoned  to 
confirm  these  statements.  There  was  no  quarrel,  Cyril  said  on  his 
oath,  but  Lee  seemed  annoyed,  neither  of  them  knew  v/hy,  and 
forbade  Everard  his  house;  they  supposed  him  to  be  under  the 
influence  of  drink. 

Here  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  took  Cyril  up  sharply,  and 
asked  what  grounds  he  had  for  such  a supposition  with  regard  to  a 
man  whose  sobriety  w^as  well  known ; and,  altogether,  Cyril’s  evi- 
dence was  severely  tested  and  reduced  to  powder.  He  sat  down 
wsth  the  despairing  conviction  that  he  had  done  Everard  as  much, 
damage  as  possible. 

Lilian’s  evidence,  however,  had  a worse  effect  even  than  his.  She 
had  tried  to  avoid  admitting  her  glimpse  of  the  gray  figure  at  dusk, 
but  in  vain.  The  maids  swore  that  she  had  both  seen  and  spoken  to 
the  supposed  Everard,  and  she  was  placed  in  the  cruel  position  of 
having  to  swear  for  or  against  an  apparition,  which  she  believed  to 


154 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


be  some  trick  of  the  senses  and  imaginatipn  and  which  she  could  in 
honest  truth  neither  afSrm  nor  deny.  Placed  in  tne  witness-box, 
she  could  only  say  that  she  thought  she  saw  a gray  figure  fiit  by  in 
the  dusk,  and  that  she  spoke  under  the  impression  that  it  was  Dr. 
Everard,  but  believed  herself  to  have  been  mistaken.  Pressed  for 
a reason  for  doubting  his  identity,  she  could  only  give  his  silence 
when  spoken  to,  and  his  subsequent  denial  at  dinner  of  having 
come  in  at  that  hour,  and  it  required  no  very  keen  intelligence  to 
discover  that  Lilian  wished  to  disbelieve  in  the  apparition.  She  vol- 
unteered evidence  as  to  the  alleged  meeting  with  Alma  at  midday, 
stating  that  she’  was  with  Everard  the  whole  time,  and  that  they 
had  seen  no  human  being  besides  themselves. 

It  did  not  follow  from  this,  as  was  observed,  that  Alma  was  not 
there,  as  Mrs.  Lee  and  Judkins  had  sworn,  or  that  Everard  had  not 
intended  to  meet  her  at  that  hour,  had  he  been  able  to  be  alone. 
Alma  was  not  in  a condition  even  to  make  a deposition  on  her  bed 
of  sickness,  since  she  continued  more  or  less  delirious  for  some 
weeks  after  her  father’s  death : but  her  evidence  was  not  deemed 
of  sufficient  consequence  to  justify  a postponement  of  the  trial,  which, 
after  a quantity  of  evidence  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  detail, 
ended  in  a repetition  of  the  coroner’s  verdict ; and  Henry,  doubting 
whether  there  were  ^ny  longer  a solid  earth  to  stand  on,  or  a just 
Heaven  to  appeal  to,  found  himself  committed  for  trial  at  the  next 
assizes  on  the  capital  charge. 


CHAPTEK  XY. 

Cyril’s  direst  anticipations  had  not  reached  a capital  conviction, 
though  he  had  feared  manslaughter,  and  even  Sir  Lionel  Swayne- 
stone  had  his  doubts  as  to  the  justice  of  the  graver  charge.  Oldport 
public  opinion,  whipji  was  naturally  stirred  to  its  depths,  was  divided 
between  the  two  ; of  the  accused's  innocence  it  had  not  the  slightest 
suspicion.  ’The  little  town  was  Liberal,  not  to  say  Eadical.  in  its 
politics,  and ‘disposed  to  think  the  worst  of  a gentleman  in  his  deal- 
ings with  those  beneath  him. 

Few  people  had  a good  word  for  a medical  man  of  good  birth, 
who  was  said  to  have  taken  advantage  of  both  rank  and  profession 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


155 


to  work  such  cruel  harm  as  that  imputed  to  Everard.  The  medical 
profession,  strangely  enough,  has  never  been  popular,  skill  in  the 
healing  art  being  usually  attributed  by  the  unlearned  to  the  favor 
of  the  Evil  One  : a clever  physician  is  prized  and  feared,  but  rarely 
loved.  Even  among  the  cultured  there  still  lingers  a faint  repulsion, 
for  the  man  who  is  the  only  welcome  guest  in  the  day  of  sickness 
and  peril,  and  society  is  only  just  beginning  to  honor  the  cultivated 
intellect  and  recognize  the  social  value  of  the  doctor. 

The  case  of  William  Palmer,  the  notorious  poisoner,  was  then 
fresh  in  people’s  minds,  and  the  ease  and  impunity  with  which  a 
skillful  physician  can  become  a murderer  had  awakened  something 
of  the  old  superstitious  horror  of  the  doctor’s  occult  knowledge  in 
the  public  imagination.  Browne-Stockham  and  his  colleague,  a 
retired  merchant  of  limited  intellect  and  still  more  limited  knowl- 
edge, and  whose  birth  and  liberal  politics  prejudiced  him  against 
Everard  as  a scion  of  a good  old  Tory  family,  were  both  strongly 
prepossessed  against  the  innocence  of  a doctor  who  had  manifested 
such  unaccountable  eagerness  to  get  a footing  in  a humble  family 
under  pretense  of  exercising  his  skill.  Dr.  Eastbrook  had  been 
ready  and  'willing  to  attend  Mrs.  Lee  as  usual  in  the  preceding 
spring,  as  his  evidence  stated;  Dr.  Everard  had  asked  leave  to 
attend  with  him,  because  it  was  an  unusual  and  very  interesting 
case,  a thing  neither  magistrates  nor  coroner’s  jury  could  under- 
stand. 

Dr.  Eastbrook,  an  older  man,  and  too  busy  to  be  very  eager 
about  unusual  cases,  was  not  sorry  to  have  Everard’s  help,  since 
the  case  required  more  frequent  visits  than  he  could  conveniently 
give,  and  finally  he  gave  up  the  case  to  him  altogether.  This  the 
public  mind  could  conceive ; but  Everard’s  great  eagerness  and  as- 
siduous watching  of  the  sick  woman  needed  some  motive  to  account 
for  it.  What  motive  could  there  be  save  that  sinister  one  of  seeing 
Alma  constantly  and  alone  ? Thus  many  prejudices  gathered  together 
to  precipitate  Everard’s  doom,  and  although  the  prejudice  of  class 
was  not  so  strong  against  him  before  the  judge  and  jury  at  the 
assizes,  yet  there  his  profession  exposed  him  to  as  great  dis- 
favor. 

Everard  once  discussed  with  Cyril  the  subject  of  the  doctor’s 
small  popularity  as  compared  with  the  clergyman’s,  and  Cyril  ac- 
counted for  it  partly  by  the  usefulness  of  the  surgeon.  “ Clergy- 
men,” he  observed,  in  one  of  those  bursts  of  ingenuous  satire  that 


156 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


delighted  Everard,  are  of  no  use  save  at  two  or  three  august  mo- 
ments of  life — when  a man  dies,  gets  married,  or  is  born — therefore 
they  inspire  popular  reverence  as  belonging  to  the  ornamental  and 
superfluous  portion  of  existence — its  fringes,  so  to  speak.  Doctors, 
on  the  contrary,  can  not  be  dispensed  with ; their  services  are 
needed  and  obtained  on  the  most  homely. occasions,  and  men  never 
reverence  the  indispensable.  Bread  and  cheese  is  taken  as  a matter 
of  course,  but  the  champagne  of  festivals  is  thought  much  of.” 

Cyril  often  affected  a cynicism  which  amused  Everard  the  more 
from  its  contrast  with  his  supposed  character. 

It  was  difficult  to  move  through  the  dense  crowd  which  gathered 
round  the  Oldport  Town  Hall  when  Everard  issued  from  it  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  magistrates’  inquiry,  and  public  opinion  expressed 
itself  in  hisses  and  groans  as  the  vehicle  in  which  he  was  being  con- 
veyed moved  slowly,  and  not  without  some  effort  on  the  part  of  the 
guard  of  police,  through  the  square. 

Hot  every  day  was  there  such  an  exciting  event  as  a trial  for 
murder  in  the  town  hall,  nor  was  it  often  that  a culprit  of  such  high 
social  standing  appeared  in  the  well-known  dock.  The  little  town 
wore  quite  a festal  air.  Street-musicians  and  barrows  laden  with 
nuts,  oranges  and  ginger-beer  drove  a thriving  trade;  and  there 
was  not  a bar  at  public-house  or  hotel  in  the  place  which  did  not 
receive  an  excess  of  custom  during  the  inquiry.  Nothing  else  was 
talked  of,  and  the  experience  of  ages  has  shown  that  when  man- 
kind talk  they  must  drink  something  more  inspiriting  than  water ; 
also  that  when  they  drink  that  something  they  invariably  talk  in 
proportion  to  its  inspiriting  qualities.  Tea-tables  are  supposed  to  be 
the  great  centers  of  gossip,  and  their  female  devotees  its  high  priest- 
esses. This  is  a popular  fallacy.  The  ladies  bear  their  part  valiant- 
ly, but  they  can  not  match  the  men.  From  the  West  End  club 
down  to  the  humblest  public-house,  male  coteries  are  the  great 
sources  of  social  information,  whicli  arrives  in  a weakened  second- 
hand form  at  the  female  tea-board,  where,  indeed,  it  is  frequently 
robbed  for  obvious  reasons  of  its  most  racy  characteristics. 

On  the  evening  after  the  termination  of  the  great  murder  case, 
the  pleasant  bow- windowed  room  behind  the  bar  at  Burton’s  Hotel, 
which,  as  everybody  knows,  is  opposite  the  town  hall,  was  occupied 
not  only  by  its  nightly  frequenters,  but  also  by  many  less  familiar 
guests,  who  dropped  in  ostensibly  for  a cigar  and  brandy  or  pale  ale 
for  the  gobd  of  the  house,  but  really  to  hear  the  news,  or  rather  to 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


15T 


enjoy  the  curious  pleasure  experienced  by  human  bipeds  in  retelling 
and  rehearing  from  many  different  lips  what  they  know  perfectly 
already — like  the  readers  who  enjoy  the  wdmle  of  ‘‘The  Eing  and 
the  Book.”  Among  these  grave  citizens  was  Mr.  Warner,  the 
owner  of  the  large  linen-draper’s  shop,  which  makes  the  High 
Street  so  resplendent  with  plate-glass  and  fashionable  fabrics. 

“If  ever  I saw  guilty  written  on  a man’s  face,”  he  observed 
thoughtfully,  “it  was  stamped  upon  Everard’s.” 

“I  never  saw  a fellow  with  such  a brazen  look,”  returned  young 
Cooper,  of  the  great  auctioneering  firm.  “Eastbrook  says  he  is 
awfully  clever.” 

“Those  fellows  generally  are,”  added  Strutt,  the  principal  tailor, 
removing  his  cigar  from  his  lips  and  looking  lovingly  at  it.  “ How 
I pity  those  poor  Maitlands ! ” 

“ Nice  fellow,  young  Maitland ! I’ve  known  him  from  a boy,” 
said  Warner.  “They  always  deal  with  us.  He  was  in  my  shop  on 
the  very  day  of  the  murder.” 

“Ah!  and  he  was  in  mine  on  that  same  day,”  added  Strutt. 
“ Taking  manners  he  has.  Till  he  went  to  Cambridge,  every  thread 
he  wore  came  from  us.  I know  him  well.” 

“Looks  ill;  trouble,  perhaps,”  chimed  in  young  Mr.  West,  cash- 
ier at  the  county  bank.  “I  hear  that  this  Everard  was  bred  up 
with  him.” 

“He  was,”  returned  Warner;  “but  this  young  Maitland’s  man- 
ner is  up  to  everything.  The  young  scamp ! he  came  into  our 
establishment  on  New  Year’s  Eve.  Marches  up  to  me  with  his 
hand  held  out,  looking  as  if  he’d  come  from  London  on  purpose  to 
see  me.  ‘How  are  you,  Warner?  A happy  New  Year ! ’ and  so 
on.  ‘How  well  you  are  looking!  ’ Inquiries  for  every  creature  in 
my  house.  Presently  asks  if  I can  cash  a check  for  him — check 
of  Sir  Lionel  Swaynestone’s,  ten  guineas,  as  good  paper  as  the  Bank 
of  England’s,  of  course.  He  wanted  all  gold,  which  we  couldn’t 
quite  do,  and  had  to  send  a young  man  to  Cave’s  for  some  of  it. 
‘ This  check  is  for  charities  in  our  East  End  parish,  which  is  fright- 
fully poor,’  said  he,  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  ‘And  if  you  should  hap- 
pen by  mistake  to  slip  in  an  additional  guinea,  Warner,’  says  his 
worship,  ‘I’ll  promise  you  to  overlook  it  for  once.’  Well,  there  was 
something  in  the  lad’s  way  that  got  the  better  of  me,  and  I was 
weak  enough  to  slip  in  the  extra  coin,  though  we  make  a point  of 
keeping  to  local  charities ; and,  upon  my  soul,  I felt  as’  if  I had 


158 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


received  the  favor,  not  he.  Those  are  the  manners  to  make  one’s 
way  in  the  world  with.” 

“And  those  are  the  people  who  deserve  to  get  on, interposed 
the  auctioneer;  “not  your  surly,  defiant  fellows,  like  this  Everard. 
By  George!  to  see  him  look  at  the  witnesses.  I fancy  he’d  like  to 
have  the  physicking  of  some  of  them  I ” 

“That’s  queer  about  the  check,”  said  Strutt,  the  tailor.  “Why, 
he  got  us  to  cash  him  a check  that  same  day,  and  would  have  it 
gold,  too ! Our  check  was  by  the  Vicar  of  Oldport — five  guineas.” 

“What!  the  same  day?”  asked  another  citizen,  who  had  been 
listening.  “ What  did  he  want  with  fifteen  guineas  in  gold  in  his 
pocket?  ” 

“Well,”  replied  Strutt,  “he  said  he  couldn’t  bear  paper;  it 
never  seemed  real  to  him.  And  he  got  over  me  with  his  extra 
coins  just  as  he  did  over  Warner.  We  showed  him  some  new 
patent  braces.  ‘Dear  me,  Strutt!  ’ says  he,  ‘is  it  possible  that  yon 
don’t  know  that  the  younger  clergy  expect  to  have  these  things 
found  them?’  looking  as  grave  as  a judge.  ‘Found  them,  really, 
Mr.  Maitland  ? ’ says  I.  ‘ To  be  sure ! braces  and  smoking-caps, 
worked  by  devout  females.’  Not  much  to  say,  but  the  quaintness 
of  the  manner  tickled  me,  and  one  of  our  young  men  laughed  out. 
Maitland  never  smiled,  but  asked  for  some  handkerchiefs.  ‘The 
faithful  don’t  supply  handkerchiefs,  unluckily,’  says  he.” 

“ He  didn’t  look  much  like  joking  in  the  box,  poor  chap  ! ” said 
Cooper  reflectively.  “ Wonder  what  he  wanted  with  all  that  gold?” 

“People  are  fond  of  gold,  particularly  ladies  and  clergymen,” 
observed  young  West,  who  was  still  more  surprised  than  the  trades- 
men at  Cyril’s  passion  for  specie.  He  stroked  his  moustache 
thoughtfully,  and  wished  that  professional  etiquette  did  not  forbid 
him  to  relate  his  anecdote,  which  he  thought  might  throw  some 
light  on  the  bag  of  coin  found  in  the  wood. 

Cyril  had  visited  the  bank  on  that  same  day,  and  drawn  thirty 
pounds  on  his  own  account.  West  asked  him  the  usual  question, 
“Notes  or  gold?  ” expecting  to  be  asked  for,  perhaps,  five  pounds 
gold,  and  the  rest  paper,  and  looked  a little  surprised  at  the  ready 
answer,  “ Gold.” 

Cyril  laughed.  “You  think  it  odd  to  carry  so  much  gold  about, 
Mr.  West?  ” he  asked. 

“It  is  unusual,  certainly,  Mr.  Maitland,  and,  if  it  were  known, 
would  be  dangerous.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


159 


‘‘  Oh,  no  one  suspects  a starveling  curate  of  being  overburdened 
with  coin  ! A handful  of  sovereigns  loose  about  me  is  a whim  of 
mine.  It  makes  me  fancy  myself  a rich  man;  there  is  an  Arabian 
Nights’  flavor  about  it.  What  a Dives  you  must  feel  when  you 
shovel  up  the  sovereigns  in  that  knowing  little  shovel  of  yours!  ” 
Mr.  West  replied  that  he  could  more  readily  realize  the  sensa- 
tions of  Lazarus,  and  asked  his  customer  if  lie  did  not  frequently 
lose  money,  when  he  saw  him  carelessly  drop  the  three  little  piles 
of  gold  into  his  waistcoat  pockets. 

“ I might  if  I stood  on  my  head,”  returned  Cyril,  “ and  that  is 
not  probable.  If  you  should  hear  of  a mild  curate  being  murdered 
and  robbed  in  the  course  of  the  next  few  days,  you  will  be  able  to 
bear  witness  against  the  assassin.  Nice  weather  for  the  season, 
isn’t  it?  Good  morning.” 

“Fifteen  and  thirty  make  forty-five,”  mused  young  West,  “and 
two  fellows  would  have  at  least  five  pounds  gold  more  about  them 
in  the  common  course  of  things.  Yet,  to  hear  Maitland  talk,  you 
would  think  he  never  moved  without  his  pockets  full  of  specie.  A 
whim  of  his!  Clergy  can  lie  as  well  as  others. 

“I  tell  you  what,”  he  added  aloud,  “I  expect  young  Maitland 
could  open  people’s  eyes  about  this  murder,  if  he  cared  to.  Those 
fifteen  sovereigns  went  into  that  bag,  I’ll  lay  any  money.” 

“ Not  it,”  returned  Cooper.  “ A fellow  wouldn’t  ask  a parson 
to  help  him  in  such  a scrape,  chum  or  no  chum.” 

“ He’d  ask  the  devil  himself,”  interposed  young  Durant,  who 
was  articled  to  his  uncle,  Everard’s  solicitor. 

“In  that  case,  he  would  turn  to  a lawyer,”  retorted  Cooper, 
slily. 

“Well,”  pursued  West,  “did  you  ever  see  a fellow  stutter  over 
his  evidence  like  that?  And  Maitland  so  ready  with  his  tongue. 
He  was  afraid  of  incriminating  his  friend,  poor  chap ! ” 

“I  was  sorry  for  Miss  Maitland,”  said  Warner.  “To  see  her 
tremble!  Somebody  said  she  was  engaged  to  Everard.” 

“No  engagement,  my  uncle  says,”  replied  Durant.  “A  pretty 
girl,  like  her  brother,  but  older,  I suppose.” 

“Why,  they  are  twins!  Everybody  knows  the  Malbourne 
twins,”  said  Mr.  Warner.  “ An  escape  for  her,  if  she  cared  for  this 
doctor  fellow.  Nice  girl ; our  people  always  like  to  serve  her.  Do 
you  think  they’ll  hang  him,  Strutt  ? ” 

“I  tell  you  what,”  broke  in  Burton,  the  landlord;  “it’s  no 
11 


160 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


hanging  business.  Ten  to  one,  Lee  attacked  him.  In  an^  case, 
there  was  a stiff  struggle.  Look  at  the  torn  coat,  and  the  black  eye.’^ 

‘‘If  you  try  to  murder  me  with  a pint  pot,  Burton,  and  I round 
upon  you,  and  hit  out  straight  till  I’m  down,  it’s  none  the  less 
murder,”  said  another  customer. 

“This  will  be  manslaughter  at  Belminster,”  said  the  landlord, 
oracularly.  “ Who’ll  bet  upon  it  ? I’ll  take  any  odds.” 

Even  more  surprised  than  Mr.  West  was  Lilian,  when,  on  her 
parting  with  Cyril  on  his  return  to  his  duties,  he  asked  her  to  lend 
him  a couple  of  sovereigns. 

“Why,  you  extravagant  boy!  Have  you  spent  all  those  we 
gave  you  for  your  parish  ? ” she  asked. 

Cyril  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “You  know  the  fellow  of  old, 
Lill,  and  how  he  scatters  his  coins.  Only  three  guineas,  all  told, 
you  know.” 

“ Oh,  Cyll ! And  Sir  Lionel’s  ten?  ” 

“ On  paper.  You  can’t  pay  your  railway  fare  with  a check. 
Oh  yes!  scold  away.  I ought  to  have  brought  more  money  with 
me,  I dare  say.  I never  carry  coin  about,  dear ; too  sure  to  lose  it. 
But,  wonder  of  wonders,  I do  chance  to  have  a five  pound  note. 
There ! ” 

Cyril  had  repaired  to  the  Rectory  for  the  first  time  since  Hew 
Year’s  Eve  to  bid  his  mother  good-by.  He  could  not  bear  to  be 
there  after  what  had  occurred,  he  said,  and  he  especially  shrank, 
though  he  did  not  say  so,  from  meeting  Lilian. 

“ Poor  dear  fellow ! sensitive  as  he  is,  no  wonder  he  can  not 
bear  to  be  here,”  commented  Mr.  Maitland.  “ It  is  a sore  trial  for 
us  all,”  he  sighed,  as  Lilian  turned  her  head  away. 

For  he  knew  now  of  Lilian's  love ; she  had  told  him  all  in  the 
terrible  quarter  of  an  hour  in  his  study  on  Hew  Year’s  Day,  when 
he  broke  the  horror  of  Everard’s  arrest  to  her,  and  she  reproached 
him  passionately  for  his  disbelief  in  the  innocence  of  the  accused. 

But  Cyril  was  obliged  to  conquer  his  repugnance,  and  bid  his 
invalid  mother  farewell,  and  the  rush  of  emotion  which  overcame 
him  in  stepping  over  the  threshold,  so  lately  desecrated  by  Everard’s 
arrest,  was  thought  only  natural  and  creditable  to  him.  Lilian  met 
him  there,  and  drew  him  aside  to  her  room,  where  Everard’s  gift 
of  Guercino’s  Guardian  Angel  gazed  with  his  rapt,  earnest  gaze  far 
away  over  the  sorrowful  earth  to  the  distant  heaven  of  joy  and 
purity. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


161 


“ Oh,  Cyril!  ” cried  Lilian,  “ why  did  you  not  come  before?  I 
have  wanted  you  so.  They  are  all  against  him.  Every  one  believes 
him  guilty  but  me.  Tell  me,  dear — oh,  tell  me  that  one  at  least 
is  true  to  him!  You  are  his  friend;  you  can  not  think  him 
guilty.” 

Cyril  paused,  his  own  emotion  smothered,  as  it  were,  by  this 
outburst  of  Lilian’s,  an  outburst  so  foreign  to  her  usual  calm  selL 
control  and  restrained  strength ; . then  he  opened  his  arms  in  a rush 
of  the  old,  lifelong  affection,  and  clasped  Lilian  to  his  heart. 

“I  do  believe  in  him,”  he  said ; ‘‘  he  is  as  innocent  as  an  unborn 
babe.  1 know  it — 1 hnow  it ! ” 

“ Dear  Cyril,  I knew  you  would  be  true,”  replied  Lilian. 
“ What  shall  we  do,  Cyril  ? Oh  ! what  shall  we  do  ? ” 

“What,  indeed?”  returned  Cyril,  overcome  by  the  unaccus- 
tomed passion  of  Lilian,  whose  tears  mingled  with  his  own,  as  the 
twins  cried  in  each  other’s  arms,  just  as  they  had  done  in  the  old 
days  of  childhood. 

“ Keep  up  your  heart,  Lill,”  said  Cyril,  caressingly,  when  they 
had  recovered  themselves  a little.  “After  all,  what  is  it?  An 
idiotic  mistake,  a foolish  mare’s  nest,  invented  by  these  stupid 
rustics.  A little  inquiry  will  set  all  right.” 

“ But  this  verdict — oh,  Cyll ! ” exclaimed  Lilian,  letting  her 
head  droop  once  more  on  her  brother’s  shoulder  and  weeping 
afresh. 

“What  is  the  verdict?”  asked  Cyril,  rather  tremulously,  as  he 
stroked  the  rich  waves  of  Lilian’s  hair,  and  rejoiced  that  she  could 
not  see  his  face.  “ Surely  not — ? ” 

“Murder,”  replied  Lilian,  in  low,  shuddering  tones. 

Cyril  uttered  an  exclamation.  Was  it  an  oath?  Lilian  did  not 
even  pause  to  commend  it  to  the  recording  angel’s  lenience.  Blue 
fire  shot  from  his  eyes,  and  he  ground  his  teeth. 

“ Asses ! ” he  exclaimed  at  last.  “ Kever  mind  the  coroner  and 
his  stupid  verdict,  darling,”  he  added  soothingly.  “ Coroners  hap- 
pily do  not  administer  justice.  A very  little  evidence  will  set 
things  straight.  Henry  was  not  in  the  wood.  They  can  not  prove 
him  to  have  been  in  two  places  at  once.  Widow  Dove  being  out 
that  night  was  unlucky.” 

“ Everything  seems  unlucky,”  sighed  Lilian.  “ The  stars  in  their 
courses  fight  against  him,  Cyril.” 

Lilian  raised  her  head,  and  looked  sorrowfully  and  appealingly, 


162 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


as  it  seemed,  into  her  brother’s  e^^es;  and  a rush  of  deep  atTection, 
springing  from  the  purest  sources  in  his  nature,  cloud-ed  the  young 
man’s  glance,  and  he  clasped  her  once  more  protectingly  to  his 
breast,  feeling,  as  in  the  days  of  his  spotless  boyhood,  that  no  hm 
man  being  could  ever  be  so  close  and  dear  to  him  as  this  twin  sister, 
whose  being  was  so  closely  and  mysteriously  interwoven  with  his 
own.  All  affections  and  ties  that  had  since  arisen  seemed  as  noth- 
ing in  comparison  with  this  one  strong  bond  of  primal  instinctive 
love;  even  the  bond  of  marriage  seemed  but  a secondary  thing  by 
the  side  of  it. 

The  twins  had  drifted  apart  of  late  years.  They  had  thought 
that  the  old  childish  union  must  naturally  grow  weaker  with  the 
increasing  complex  claims  of  mature  life ; but  now  they  realized 
that  it  had  only  sunk  out  of  sight  for  a time,  like  an  underground 
stream,  to  break  forth  again  with  renewed  power.  Lilian’s  weak- 
ness and  momentary  self-abandonment  called  out  all  that  was  man- 
liest and  best  in  Cyril.  Hers,  he  knew,  was  the  deeper,  stronger 
nature.  He  leant  habitually  on  her,  and  now  he  was  touched  to  find 
her  leaning  on  him  ; and  the  tears  they  shed  together  renewed  and  re- 
consecrated the  strong  kinship  between  them,  like  some  holy  chrism. 

He  felt  a happier  and  better  man  than  he  had  been  for  many 
weary  months  after  that  mingling  of  tears,  and  the  thought  flashed 
through  him,  with  a mingling  of  pain  and  sweetness,  that  they 
were  too  closely  united  not  to  stand  or  fall  together;  either  he 
must  drag  Lilian  down,  or  she  must  raise  him  up.  Lilian  would 
surely,  he  thought,  as  he  gazed  into  her  clear,  deep,  beautiful  eyes, 
be  in  some  way  his  salvation.  In  the  mean  time,  he  soothed  and 
comforted  her. 

“ You  see,  Lill,”  he  said,  “ somebody  killed  poor  Lee,  probably 
by  accident.  And,  if  things  came  to  the  worst  with  Everard,  thai 
somebody  would  certainly  come  forward  and  clear  him.” 

This  seemed  curious  reasoning,  and  yet  it  comforted  Lilian 
strangely.  “ My  great  hope  is  in  Alma,”  she  said.  I am  sure  she 
can  throw  light  upon  the  affair.” 

A hot  flame  shot  over  Cyril’s  face,  and  he  turned  his  gaze 
from  his  sister’s  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  ‘‘  No  doubt,”  he 
replied. 

“ And  then,”  continued  Lilian,  lifting  her  head  with  a proud, 
indignant  flush,  “ this  hideous  aspersion  must  vanish.” 

Good  heavens ! Lilian,  do  you  mean  that  they — ” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


163 


“You  have  not  followed  the  evidence,  Cyril?”  asked  Liliar. 
“ Get  the  Advertiser.,  and  you  will  see.  Yes,  they  dare — they  actn- 
ally  dare,”  she  continued,  drawing  herself  up,  and  walking  up  and 
down  with  gestures  of  indignant  disdain,  while  her  eyes  shot  forth 
such  a stream  of  light  as  Cyril’s  were  wont  to  do,  “ to  charge  him 
with  Alma’s  ruin!  ” 

The  twins  had  been  looking  more  alike  than  ever  during  their 
impassioned  interview,  till  Lilian,  in  her  fiery  indignation,  seemed 
like  an  intensified  Cyril ; but  now  the  softness  and  calm  strength, 
which  seemed  to  have  passed  from  the  sister  to  the  brother,  sud- 
denly left  the  latter,  and  his  face  changed  and  hardened,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

“My  hope  is  that  Alma  may  not  die,”  continued  Lilian,  not 
observing  him  in  the  intensity  of  her  passion. 

“ Die ! ” interrupted  Cyril  in  a deep,  strange  voice,  while  his 
breath  came  gaspingly.  “ Is  there  danger  ? ” 

“Yes:  but  God  is  good.  He  will  not  let  her  die  till  she  has 
proved  Henry’s  innocence.” 

Cyril  was  trembling  with  a terrible  hope,  and  yet  a dread  of 
what  he  dared  not  even  in  thought  acknowledge.  He  could  not 
speak  for  some  moments,  but  looked  out  into  the  chill  garden, 
smothering  this  fierce  emotion,  and  striving  to  stifle  a wish  that 
formed  itself  in  spite  of  his  better  nature.  At  last  he  turned  to 
Lilian,  whose  unexhausted  passion  continued  to  pour  itself  out  in 
the  same  strain,  with  the  radiant  smile  whose  magnetism  so  few 
could  resist. 

“ What  idiots  we  are,  Lill,”  he  said,  “ wasting  our  fears  upon 
this  phantom ! Old  Hal  will  be  here  laughing  at  the  absurd  mis- 
take in  a week.  There  needs  no  interposition  of  Providence  to 
arrange  that  simple  matter.  And,  if  it  were  not  so,”  he  added,  his 
brow  darkening,  “he  must  be  free — at  any  cost — at  any  cost,”  he 
repeated,  below  his  breath. 

“At  any  cost,”  he  repeated,  as  he  drove  his  father  into  Oldport; 
and  he  turned  and  looked  upon  the  gray  head  by  his  side  with  a 
strange  mixture  of  tenderness  and  dismay.  Mr.  Maitland  was  con- 
versing cheerily  as  they  drove  along,  with  a view  to  keeping  up 
Cyril’s  spirits,  and  carefully  avoiding  the  subject  which  was  upper- 
most in  everybody’s  mind. 

“ So  Marion  declines  to  come  to  us,”  he  said  at  last. 

“ Yes,”  replied  Cyril,  in  the  plaintive  tone  with  which  he  usually 


164 


THE  SILEECE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


discussed  small  annoyances:  “She  says  that  her  place  is  at  Wood* 
lands,  under  present  circumstances.” 

“ Poor  dear ! she  is  a brave  girl.  Perhaps  she  is  right.  While 
George  and  his  wife  are  there  she  will  be  cared  for.  Yes,  she  is 
right.  Yet  for  Lilian’s  sake — well — Why,  Cyril  lad,”  he  added, 
as  Cyril  lifted  his  hat  for  a moment  to  cool  his  hot  forehead,  just  as 
they  were  passing  the  Temple  and  the  fatal  wood  above  it,  “that  is 
a nasty  bruise  on  your  head  ! How  did  you  get  it?  ” 

That  ? ” replied  Cyril,  replacing  his  hat  with  a smile,  and 
gently  flicking  the  pony  into  a better  pace.  “ Oh,  I did  that  ages 
ago ! I ran  against  a door  in  the  dark.  Here  are  the  Swayne- 
stones.  How  v/ell  Ethel  sits  her  horse ! Maude  is  inclined  to  be 
heavy.” 

“Those  poor  Maitlands!”  Maude  Swaynestone  was  saying  to 
her  sister.  “ How  glad  Cyril  must  be  to  get  back  to  his  parish ! ” 

‘•How  he  must  hate  papa!  ” returned  Ethel,  hotly,  “or  despise 
him,  for  arresting  an  innocent  man  on  such  flimsy  grounds!  ” 

“ My  dear  Ethel,  your  weakness  for  Dr.  Everard  carries  you  over 
the  bounds  of  reason.” 

When  Cyril  reached  the  station,  he  obtained  every  local  paper 
published,  and  forgot  to  pay  for  them  in  his  eagerness  till  gently 
reminded. 

“Just  in  time,  sir,”  the  stall-keeper  said,  as  he  handed  him  his 
change.  “We  have  no  copies  of  Advertiser  IqH.  All  the  pa- 
pers printed  double  editions,  too.  The  Everards  and  Maitlands  are 
so  well  known  in  these  parts.” 

they?”  replied  Cyril,  turning  away  with  a flash  of  blue 
fire  from  his  eyes. 

“Well,  I am  blowed!”  cried  the  stall-keeper’s  boy-assistant, 
doubled  up  with  laughing.  “ If  that  ain’t  young  Maitland  hisself ! ” 

Cyril’s  hands  shook  as  he  opened  the  sheets  and  ran  his  eye 
down  the  columns  till  he  saw,  in  large  capitals,  “The  Swaynestone 
Murder.  Adjourned  Inquest.  Verdict.”  He  held  the  paper  so  as 
to  shield  his  face  from  the  gaze  of  his  fellow-travelers,  and  read 
with  growing  horror,  until  cold  drops  stood  on  his  forehead,  and 
his  lips  grew  dry  and  hard. 

“ I never  dreamed  of  this,”  he  muttered.  “Heaven  is  my  wit- 
ness, I never  dreamed  of  it ! ” 

Life  seemed  to  him  one  hopeless  tangle  of  error  and  misery, 
against  which  he  was  powerless  to  strive.  Labyrinth  after  laby^ 


THB  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


165 


rinth  seemed  to  draw  him  within  their  interminable  folds,  till  his 
brain  was  dazed  and  his  heart  sick.  Ko where  could  he  catch  the 
clew  to  any  straight  course;  by  no  means  could  he  unwind  the 
deadly  coil  that  Fate  had  wound  so  closely  and  thickly  round  him ; 
as  he  thought,  forgetting  his  own  share  in  the  work.  What  was 
the  good,  he  wondered,  of  being  horn  into  a world  so  complex,  so 
bewildering,  so  full  of  complicated  motive  and  baffled  purpose,  so  be- 
set by  the  devil  and  all  his  works?  He  felt  as  weak  as  any  weaned 
child,  as  terrified  as  a boy  in  the  dark,  in  the  presence  of  the  gigantic 
evils  striding  upon  him ; his  will  seemed  to  melt  like  wax  within 
him.  Then  he  remembered  Lilian  in  her  unwonted  passion,  and 
the  memory  was  like  the  balm  of  morning  breezes  through  the  open 
window  of  a sick-room,  and  he  made  a stand  against  the  mental  and 
moral  swoon  wliich  threatened  him.  Yes,  in  Lilian,  his  better  self, 
the  saving  clause  of  his  being  spoke,  and  he  murmured  to  himself 
once  more,  “At  any  cost.” 

Some  fresh  travelers  got  in  at  Belminster,  and  Cyril  entered  into 
conversation  with  them,  which  became  animated  as  they  touched 
upon  congenial  topics. 

“ What  a brilliant  lad ! ” one  of  them  observed  to  his  companion, 
as  they  drove  away  from  Waterloo ; “ one  of  the  half-dozen  who  can 
talk.” 

“ It  will  be  all  right,”  Cyril  thought  to  himself,  as  he  sped  east- 
ward in  his  hansom  through  the  crowded  streets;  “something  will 
turn  up— some  happy  chance.” 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Early  on  a bleak  spring  morning,  cold  with  the  hitter  chill 
which  comes  only  at  the  moment  just  before  the  dawn  of  day  or 
the  turn  of  winter,  and  strikes  into  the  very  marrow  of  the  bones, 
Cyril  Maitland  was  entering  Belminster  by  the  steep  road  descend- 
ing into  the  ancient  city  from  the  windy  downs  which  partially 
surround  it. 

Early  as  it  was,  he  had  walked  far,  having  risen  from  his  sleep- 
less couch  in  utter  restlessness,  and  sought  to  still  his  inward  fever 
by  bodily  exercise.  A cup  of  milk  at  a farmhouse,  and  a crust  of 


166 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


bread,  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  swallow,  formed  his  frugal  break- 
fast. He  had  in  his  hand  a manual  of  Lenten  devotion,  which  he 
could  not  read.  His  beautiful  eyes  were  brilliant  with  fever,  and 
appeared  all  the  larger  from  the  dark  circles  beneath  them. 
can  not  bear  this  much  longer,”  he  murrfiured  to  himself,  as  he  de- 
scended the  steep  chalky  road,  and  gazed  mechanically  on  the  gray 
old  city,  with  its  solemn  towers  and  buttressed  minster,  lying  in  the 
gray  chill  light  beneath  the  leaden  sky;  “my  brain  will  give  way.” 
On  the  slope  of  the  opposite  hill  were  some  large  gloomy  build- 
ings, one  of  which,  the  county  jail,  struck  upon  his  sense  with 
sickening  horror.  Everard  was  there,  to  undergo  his  trial;  for 
nothing  had  occurred,  as  Cyril  so  fondly  hoped,  to  deliver  him,  and 
he  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  it  were  possible  that,  in  spite  of  all 
the  complicated  machinery  of  English  justice,  an  innocent  man 
could  suffer  the  penalty  of  a great  crime.  To-day,  Cyril  thought, 
it  must  be  decided.  If  the  wished-for  something  failed  to  turn  up, 
one  terrible  alternative  remained,  and  Henry  must  be  delivered,  as 
he  had  told  Lilian,  “ at  any  cost.” 

He  walked  hurriedly  on,  as  those  walk  who  are  chased  by  ter- 
rible cares — wjth  something  of  the  weary  haste  of  wild  animals 
ever  on  the  alert  for  lurking  danger — between  the  old-fashioned, 
timbered  cottages,  stuck  at  picturesque  angles-,  as  if  dropped  by 
chance,  on  the  hillside,  and  becoming  more  numerous  till  they  fell 
into  continuous  line,  as  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill  where  the 
river  Bele  wound  its  quiet  course  through  level  mead  and  round 
about  the  old  houses,  which  lay  humbly,  as  it  were,  at  the  feet  of 
the  lordly  cathedral  and  the  wealthy  streets  of  the  ancient  city. 
Here  a bridge  spanned  the  stream,  and  a little  way  back  from  the 
road  stood  a quaint  mill,  built  over  an  archway,  to  admit  the  pas- 
sage of  the  swift-flowing  water,  and  overgrown  on  its  gabled, 
weather-stained  stone  front  by  a vine,  on  which  a leaf  or  two  yet 
lingered,  and  about  which  pigeons  clustered,  hoping  for  sunshine, 
and  sheltered  from  the  bleak  east  wind. 

Cyril  seated  himself  on  the  low  stone  wall  of  the  bridge,  and 
looked  down  into  the  dark  stream,  on  the  banks  of  which  the  cot- 
tages clustered  thickly  at  a little  distance  from  the  road.  His  watch 
told  him  that  he  had  not  yet  consumed  all  the  weary  time,  and  the 
running  water  had  a strange  attraction  for  him — the  idea  of  sinking 
beneath  it,  and  being  hurried  on  away  and  away  for  ever  was  so 
restful,  though  he  smiled  bitterly  at  the  thought  that  it  was  scarcely 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


167 


deep  enough  to  end  a man’s  troubles.  A child  had  been  drowned 
there  from  a cottage  garden  the  day  before,  but  he  did  not  know 
this. 

The  musical  chimes  of  the  city  told  the  quarter  in  melodious 
vibrations ; bugles  were  ringing  from  the  barracks  on  the  heights ; 
the  hum  of  busy  city  life  was  rising  and  deepening.  When  the  hour 
struck,  he  would  have  to  join  Lilian  and  his  father  in  the  court,  to 
watch  the  trial,  and  perhaps  bear  witness.  He  almost  envied  Ever- 
ard  his  place  in  the  prisoner’s  dock.  He  at  least  was  tortured  by 
no  doubts,  he  had  no  wrestlings  with  a weak  and  divided  will ; his 
course  lay  plain  and  straight  before  him.  Many  thoughts  passed 
through  Cyril’s  mind  as  he  sat  there,  regardless  of  the  bleak  wind, 
and  watched  the  unresting  water,  and  once  more  he  lived  through 
the  scene  ot  the  previous  Sunday. 

His  rector,  with  cruel  kindness,  seeing  that  the  young  man  was 
overwrought  by  the  labors  which  he  discharged  with  such  appar- 
ently conscientious  zeal,  and  tortured  by  anxiety  for  his  friend,  had 
hidden  him  take  a little  holiday,  and  go  home  to  prepare  himself  for 
the  ordeal  of  Everard’s  trial.  Thus  on  the  Sunday  Cyril  found  him- 
self once  more  in  the  old  familiar  home,  now  so  distasteful  to  him 
through  bitter  associations.  The  Malbourne  witnesses,  including 
most  of  the  Maitland  household,  were  subpoenaed  for  the  following 
day,  and  all  v/ere  present  at  church,  most  of  them  with  a lively 
remembrance  of  Cyril’s  sermon  on  Innocent’s  Day,  when  the  slayer 
and  the  slain  had  been  there  also.  To-day  Cyril  enjoyed  the  rare 
luxury  of  forming  one  of  the  congregation ; hut  his  father,  having 
mentioned  at  luncheon,  with  a profound  sigh,  that  it  was  christen- 
ing Sunday,  Cyril,  knowing  that  neither  he  nor  Mr.  Marvyn  enjoyed 
the  duty,  offered  to  take  it  for  him. 

“They  make  me  do  nearly  all  the  baptisms  at  St.  Chad’s,”  he 
said,  smiling  at  the  recollection  of  his  fellow  curates’  frequent 
requests  to  relieve  them  of  this  duty,  “because  the  babies  seldom 
cry  with  me.  And  they  are  not  engaging  babies,”  he  added ; “ utter 
strangers  to  water,  much  less  soap.  We  frequently  have  children 
of  six  or  seven,  and  they  need  management.” 

So  when  the  time  came,  Cyril  rose  from  his  place  in  the  chancel, 
and  walked  down  the  church  to  the  font,  round  which  three  in- 
fants were  ranged  with  their  sponsors.  The  congregation  turned  to 
the  west,  and  Lilian  watched  her  brother  with  loving  reverence,  as 
he  poured  the  water  into  the  font,  and  began  the  solemn  service  in 


168 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


his  perfect  manner,  giving  each  word  its  proper  weight  and  purest 
enunciation  in  his  matchless  voice,  which  was  like  an  organ  with 
many  stops.  The  bright  afternoon  sun  of  early  spring  fell  upon  him 
and  the  pathetic  little  group  of  poor  men’s  babes  brought  for  his 
ministrations,  and  Lilian  no  longer  wondered  at  his  being  chosen 
for  the  duty  at  St.  Chad’s,  when  she  saw  him  bend  and  take  the 
children  with  reverent  tenderness  in  his  arms,  and,  by  some  subtle 
magnetism  in  his  touch,  hush  incipient  wailings  into  peaceful,  wide- 
eyed  quiet. 

The  most  impressive  and  touching  of  all  the  Church’s  offices, 
this  baptismal  service  seemed,  under  Cyril’s  ministration,  yet 
more  solemn  and  pathetic,  and  the  most  unimaginative  and  com- 
monplace woman,  whose  child  was  restored  to  her  arms  in  that 
careful  and  dignified  manner,  could  not  but  feel  that  something 
august  and  wonderful  had  befallen  the  unconscious  infant  in  the 
interval.  George  Joseph,  a lusty  babe  whose  vigorous  roars  had 
occasioned  his  being  transported  three  times  to  the  churchyard, 
subsided  into  cherubic  quiet  after  one  or  two  rebellious  efforts  at 
a scream,  which  the  graceful  young  priest  soothed  with  scarcely 
perceptible  gestures,  and  began  his  Christian  course  in  a most 
laudable  manner;  then  came  a tiny  Elizabetii  Jane,  who  conducted 
herself  with  equal  propriety.  Then  Cyril  turned  to  the  third  infant, 
which  he  did  not  recognize  by  its  friends,  as  he  had  the  others. 

It  was  carried  by  a widow  woman,  who  lived  alone  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  was  known  far  and  wide  as  the  friend  of  the  friendless, 
and  the  natural  visitor  of  every  house  in  which  there  was  trouble 
of  any  kind;  she  was  also  the  invariable  sponsor  of  infants  who 
conferred  no  cred,it  on  their  friends.  This  child  was  better  dressed 
than  the  cottager’s  children,  all  in  white,  with  black  ribbons  at  its 
shoulders.  It  was  a baby  that  no  woman,  from  a queen  downward, 
could  have  looked  upon  without  longing  to  kiss,  and  was  uttering 
vailous  little  dove-like  murmurs,  which  occasionally  rose  to  a crow 
of  joy,  and  which  the  magic  touch,  and  perhaps  the  glance  of  the 
priest,  quieted  into  the  softest  sounds. 

‘‘  Name  this  child,”  said  Cyril,  turning  to  the  sponsors,  and  ex- 
pecting to  hear  some  feminine  appellation,  a female  having  already 
by  mistake  taken  precedence  of  it. 

“Benjamin  Lee,”  replied  the  widow,  in  clear,  high  tones,  which 
seemed  to  ring  through  the  silence  of  the  church  and  pierce  into  the 
very  core  of  Cyril’s  heart.  He  staggered,  and  his  face  for  a mo- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


169 


ment  was  whiter  than  the  infant’s  dress  or  his  own  stainless  robe. 
Not  the  child  which  St.  Christopher  bore  on  his  giant  shoulders 
, pressed  with  a more  overwhelming  weight  upon  him  than  did  this 
cooing  babe,  looking  up  with  the  beautiful,  far-off  gaze  of  baby  in- 
nocence into  his  white  face,  press  upon  the  shuddering  arm  which 
infolded  him. 

For  some  seconds  a dead  silence,  broken  only  by  the  child’s 
happy  murmurs,  filled  the  church.  The  whole  congregation  saw 
the  terrible  emotion  with  which  Cyril  was  shaken — his  father,  Mr. 
Marvyn,  who  was  looking  down  pitifully  from  the  reading-desk  and 
reproaching  himself  for  not  having  prepared  his  pupil,  and  thus 
saved  him  from  the  shock,  the  Swaynestones,  the  Garretts,  his 
mother  and  Lilian,  all  the  old  familiar  faces ; and  there  was  a kind 
of  sympathetic  stir  through  the  congregation,  and  a feeling  of  ter- 
ror lest  the  poor  young  fellow  should  give  way  utterly,  and  be  un- 
able to  continue  the  office. 

But  after  those  few  seconds,  which  seemed  an  eternity  to  Cyril, 
he  mastered  himself  with  a strong  effort,  under  the  stimulus  of  the 
many-eyed  sympathetic  glances  upon  him,  and,  plunging  his  right 
hand  into  the  holy  water,  went  quietly  on,  “ Benjamin  Lee,  I bap- 
tize thee,”  etc.,  with  his  accustomed  solemnity,  nor  did  his  voice 
falter  once  till  he  returned  the  infant  to  its  guardian's  arms,  adjust- 
ing its  robes  with  his  usual  care  as  he  did  so ; only  there  was  a 
deeper  meaning  than  ever  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke  the  pathetic 
words  of  the  ritual,  especially  these : ‘‘  that  he  may  not  be  ashamed 
— to  manfully  fight  under  Christ’s  banner  against  sin,  the  world, 
and  the  devil;  ” and  Lilian,  who  so  seldom  displayed  any  emotion, 
cried  unrestrainedly  at  this  passage. 

But  more  than  once  during  the  remainder  of  the  baptismal  office, 
Cyril,  instead  of  reading  “they  ” and  “them,”  for  the  three  infants, 
read  “he”  and  “him,”  especially  at  the  concluding  exhortation, 
when  he  looked  abstractedly  at  the  now  sleeping  Benjamin  Lee, 
and  said,  “ Ye  are  to  take  care  that  this  cliild^''  etc. 

Then  he  returned  with  a slow  and  weary  step  to  the  chancel, 
his  gaze  fixed  on  the  pavement,  and  the  Nunc  Dimittis  ringing  in 
his  ears,  with  a strange  feeling  of  its  inappropriateness — for  how 
different  was  his  case  from  that  of  the  aged  Simeon  with  the  Ee- 
deemer  in  his  arms! — He  felt  the  sympathetic  gaze  of  the  congrega- 
tion, who  were  still  watching  his  haggard,  troubled  face ; and  sat 
during  the  sermon  with  tfjat  face,  and  all  the  passions  which  moved 


170 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


it,  covered  by  the  sleeve  of  his  surplice,  like  that  of  Ulysses  at  the 
feast. 

He  had  looked  down  fearfully  upon  the  sweet  baby  face  resting 
so  placidly  against  his  snowy  dress,  the  “ priestly  ephod,”  as  he 
had  fondly  called  it  with  Keble,  and  his  bowels  yearned  over  the 
helpless  creature  so  unconscious  of  its  doom  and  of  all  the  tragedy 
caused  by  its  innocent,  unwelcome  existence ; he  looked  in  search 
of  some  likeness  that  might  betray  its  unknown  parent.  Was  it 
fancy  that  he  seemed  to  see,  now  a look  of  the  slain  man,  now  a 
look  of  his  ov/n  father,  but  on  the  whole  and  with  fearful  distinct- 
ness, the  features  and  expression  of  Lilian?  Would  others  see  this, 
and  would  they  wonder  at  the  accidental  resemblance,  or  did  it 
exist  only  in  his  own  overwrought,  fevered  fancy?  He  could  only 
pray  that  the  child  might  grow  up  with  other  looks;  yet  dared  he, 
ought  he,  so  to  pray? 

This  was  the  scene  re-enacted  in  his  fancy,  as  he  sat  on  the  low 
stone  wall  and  watched  the  river’s  unceasing  flow,  and  felt  no  chill 
in  the  biting  wind.  The  little  head  seemed  to  rest  still  on  his 
throbbing  breast ; the  sweet,  deep  eyes  to  gaze  up  into  his ; and  the 
tiny  dimpled  fist  to  clutch  vaguely  at  the  folds  of  the  priestly  gar- 
ment, stirring  the  wildly  beating  heart  beneath  it  with  an  emotion 
that  w|is  not  wholly  pain,  while  he  still  seemed  to  read  those  sol- 
emn words  of  baptismal  renunciation  and  manful  fighting  under  the 
sacred  banner — words  that  strike  with  such  awful  reproach  on  the 
erring  soldier  of  the  cross. 

Then  he  thought  of  Lilian,  and  his  heart  seemed  to  swoon  with- 
in him ; and  then  of  Marion,  the  center  of  all  his  hopes;  and  he 
could  look  no  longer  on  the  flowing  water,  but  rose,  suddenly  con- 
scious of  the  bleak  wind  in  which  he  shuddered,  and  hurried  on 
like  one  driven  by  thought,  his  eyes  on  the  dusty  road.  Better,  far 
better,  it  would  have  been  to  have  taken  the  step  he  meditated  at 
such  dreadful  cost  to  himself  at  the  very  first,  before  this  fearful 
coil  wound  itself  round  Everard ; every  moment’s  delay  made  it 
worse,  and  now  there  was  scarcely  room  for  fate  to  alter  things. 

A beautiful  music  rose  mellow  and  solemn  upon  his  distracted 
ear,  and  floated  softly  over  the  smoke- wreathed  city — the  cathedral 
bells  calling  to  morning  prayer.  Others  sounded  from  the  various 
churches  in  differing  cadence,  but  mostly  in  monotone,  and  blended 
with  the  delicate  chiming  of  the  minster ; none  were  silent,  since 
it  was  Lent,  and  the  melodious  confusion  penetrated  with  sweet 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


171 


pain  the  very  depths  of  Cyril’s  heart.  It  recalled  the  pleasant 
chiming  of  the  wagon  bells  as  he  heard  them  on  the  fatal  evening 
which  began  all  this  trouble,  and  it  reminded  him,  by  its  associa- 
tion with  the  cathedral,  whose  light  flying  buttresses  were  now 
springing  just  over  his  head,  of  all  the  hopes  to  which  he  was  about 
to  bid  farewell  for  ever.  Marion’s  charming  face  h<>vered  once 
more  smilingly  before  him,  and  a stifled  sob  escaped  him.  Not  many 
men,  he  thought,  had  such  high  hopes  to  renounce,  and  he  walked 
on  up  the  steep  street,  past  the  quaint,  arcaded  houses  and  the  deli- 
cately carved  and  fretted  Gothic  cross,  a man  broken  in  his  youth, 
utterly  wrecked  at  starting,  with  a cup  to  drink  that  was  beyond 
his  strength. 

A ragged  child  approached  him  with  tremulous  voice  and  large 
pleading  eyes,  ofl'ering  primroses  to  sell,  and  Cyril  stopped  even  in 
his  misery — for  he  loved  children,  and  they  loved  him — to  stroke  its 
face  and  pity  its  chilled,  bare  limbs,  and  give  it  pence  and  kindly 
words  before  he  hurried  on.  The  boy  somehow  recalled,  by  his 
wide,  clear  gaze,  the  unacknowledged  child  he  had  baptized.  Would 
that  child  be  thus  barefoot?  he  wondered.  Had  this  boy  a father 
who.suflfered  him  to  shiver  in  the  bitter  blast?  The  sweet  bell- 
music  went  floating  drowsily  on.  Cyril  found  his  father  and  Lilian, 
and  finally  reached  the  court. 

The  grand  jury  had  found  a true  bill  of  murder  against  Everard, 
and  he  now  appeared  in  answer  to  that  indictment. 

Lilian  looked  up,  as  Cyril  dared  not,  when  Everard  entered,  and 
walked  with  his  usual  firm  step  and  erect  bearing,  but  with  an  air 
of  unaccustomed  hauteur,  into  the  prisoner’s  dock.  A young  em- 
peror could  not  have  ascended  a throne  with  less  humility  or  a gaze 
more  unfaltering  than  that  with  which  the  usually  unassuming, 
gentle-mannered  Everard  mounted  the  dreadful  eminence  of  the 
accused  criminal.  He  looked  steadily,  some  said  defiantly,  all 
around  the  building,  measuring  judge  and  jury,  counsel  and  all  with 
g,  comprehensive  gaze ; it  was  only  when  his  eyes  fell  on  the  Mait- 
lands,  that  a hot  flush  sprang  over  his  face  and  a quiver  troubled  it 
for  a moment. 

His  features  were  sharpened  by  anxiety  and  suffering,  and  there 
were  dark  circles  under  his  eyes  ; but  the  confinement  had  not  im- 
paired his  magnificent  strength,  and  the  reporters  described  him 
as  a powerful  and  resolute  man  with  a defiant  air.  When  called 
upon  to  plead,  his  Not  guilty,”  with  an  emphasis  on  the  negative, 


172 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


sounded  like  a challenge  flung  in  tlie  teeth  of  the  whole  worlds 
which  truly  seemed  to  be  arraigned  against  him. 

The  judge  did  not  like  his  looks ; he  thought  such  a bearing  un- 
suitable to  an  accused  person,  whether  innocent  or  guilty.  He 
looked  in  vain  for  any  signs  of  quailing  in  the  honest  hazel  eyes, 
full  of  the  pride  of  indignant  innocence.  The  judge’s  own  gaze 
plainly  expressed  to  those  who  knew  the  man,  “ This  fellow  will 
have  to  bite  the  dust.” 

Mr.  Justice  Manby  was  well  known  as  a hanging  judge,  and, 
though  he  was  as  just  and  upright  as  perhaps  only  English  judges 
are,  he  was  human,  and  thus  liable  to  have  his  judgment  biased  by 
prejudice,  and  he  conceived  a prejudice  at  first  glance  against  the 
hauglity  prisoner  arraigned  before  him.  Yet  he  thought  himself 
prejudiced  the  other  way.  Because  he  was  a strong  Conservative, 
a staunch  upholder  of  hereditary  right  and  class  distinctions,  he 
feared  lest  he  should  unconsciously  incline  to  lenience  toward  crim- 
inals of  gentle  birth,  and  said  within  himself  that  he  would  not 
spare  any  for  his  gentleness,  but  rather  consider  how  far  more 
guilty  such  are  than  the  uncultured  herd,  who  scarcely  know  th^ir 
right  hand  from  their  left.  The  jury,  whose  minds  were  full  of 
Ealmer  and  his  diabolical  strychnine  poisonings,  and  vfho  felt  that 
strong  measures  must  be  taken  to  cripple  the  fearful  power  the 
doctor’s  position  of  trust  and  unfettered  responsibility  in  homes 
gives  him,  were  also  prejudiced  against  him  by  this  haughty  bear- 
ing, and  esteemed  him  to  be  a villain  eminently  dangerous  to  socie- 
ty. Truly,  as  Lilian  said,  the  stars  in  their  courses  seemed  to  fight 
against  Everard. 

Even  his  counsel  did  not  believe  his  statement  of  the  facts,  and 
advised  him  very  earnestly  to  plead  guilty  to  the  minor  charge. 

How  can  I plead  guilty  when  I am  innocent  ? ” thundered  Ever- 
ard. ‘‘I  tell  you  I never  even  saw  the  the  man  after  the  Sunday, 
and  had  quite  as  much  motive  for  killing  you  as  him ; indeed, 
more,”  he  added,  for  he  felt  inclined  to  personal  violence  on  some 
of  those  who  so  sorely  misjudged  him,  particularly  this  barrister,  who 
was  master  of  the  peculiar  facial  expression  that  may  be  called  the 
barrister’s  sneer,  the  expression  of  a man  who  has  seen  too  much 
of  the  wrong  side  of  human  nature.  The  counsel  understood  the 
flash  of  his  client’s  eyes,  and,  when  he  looked  at  his  powerful  frame, 
was  glad  that  he  was  not  like  the  unfortunate  Ben  Lee,  alone  in  a 
wood  with  him.  It  was  his  business,  however,  to  defend  the  pris- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


173 


oner,  and  not  to  judge  him,  and  he  did  his  best,  fettered,  as  a man 
with  any  conscience  must  be,  by  the  belief  that  his  cause  was  a bad 
one. 

The  great  thing,  as  Cyril  had  suggested,  was  to  prove  an  alibi; 
and  to  this  end,  Granfer,  William  Grove’s  child,  Winnie  Maitland — 
a feeble  trio,  truly — and  Widow  Dove  were  relied  upon.  The  lat-. 
ter,  to  Mr.  Hawkshaw’s  dismay,  had  already  been  subpoenaed  for  the 
prosecution,  at  which  Everard  smiled ; he  could  not  fear  her. 
Straun,  the  blacksmith,  who  deposed  to  having  seen  Everard  leav- 
ing the  village  in  the  direction  of  Swaynestone  some  time  before 
Stevens  saw  him  leave  the  Rectory  by  the  back  of  the  churchyard, 
was  further  reckoned  a strong  ally,  but,  on  being  put  to  the  test,  he 
was  fatally  positive  about  the  gray  suit  and  the  stick,  and  broke 
down  utterly  as  to  the  time  on  cross-examination. 

Then  Alma  was  a strong  tower  of  hope,  though  'reckoned 
among  the  witnesses  for  the  other  side ; she  would  at  least  dissipate 
the  calumny  based  upon  the  misconceptions  of  Judkins  and  her 
step-mother,  and  would  explain  the  nature  of  her  meetings  with 
Everard  in  the  spring,  when  they  had  been  accustomed  to  have 
long  discussions  upon  Mrs.  Lee's  symptoms,  and  she  would  also  en- 
lighten people  about  those  unfortunate  lectures  on  botany  which 
Everard  now  saw  with  remorseful  humiliation  to  have  been  so  in^ 
judicious. 

As  the  trial  proceeded,  and  witness  after  witness  repeated  or  en- 
larged upon  the  former  evidence,  Everard  realized  the  sensations  of 
the  man  in  the  story,  the  horror  of  which  had  fascinated  his  child- 
hood— of  the  sleeper  in  the  ghastly  four-post  bed,  the  top  of  which 
slowly  and  remorselessly  descended  upon  him  till  it  threatened  to 
become  too  late  to  escape  from  the  narrowed  aperture,  and  he  should 
struggle  in  vain  against  his  irresistible  doom. 

At  first,  in  spite  of  all  the  annoyance  and  vexatious  notoriety  of 
his  unjust  committal  and  detention,  Everard  had  believed  that  it 
must  end,  after  the  weighing  and  sifting  of  evidence  at  the  final 
trial,  in  his  acquittal ; the  worst  he  feared  was  leaving  the  court 
with  the  stains  of  unrefuted  suspicion  upon  him : but,  as  the  trial 
proceeded,  a terrible  conviction  that  a miscarriage  of  justice  might 
occur  was  slowly  burnt  into  his  soul. 

The  appearance  of  Widow  Dove  in  the  witness-box  gave  him  a 
faint  hope,  though,  having  been  absent  from  home,  she  could  not 
prove  his  presence  at  her  cottage ; she  could  merely  show  the  credh 


174 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


bility  of  his  tale.  It  was  not  possible,  he  thought,  that  a man,  act- 
ing as  he  was  accused  of  doing,  would  set  up  such  a feeble  pretense 
at  alibi  as  to  pretend  to  go  to  a house  from  which  he  averred  the 
inmates  were  absent ; it  would  be  so  very  simple  to  upset  this  de- 
fense by  the  production  of  the  inmates. 

What  was  his  amazement  on  hearing  the  witness  quietly  depose, 
“ On  December  31,  I was  at  home  all  day  with  my  daughter,  who 
was  in  bed  with  a cold.  A book-hawker  called  in  the  forenoon; 
no  one  else  came  to  the  cottage  till  six  in  the  evening,  when  Abra- 
ham Wood  looked  in  on  his  way  home  from  work  to  get  a light  foi 
his  pipe,  and  had  some  tea.”  Questioned  by  Mr.  Hawkshaw,  she 
said  that  she  was  in  the  house  from  twelve  till  six,  not  even  going 
into  her  garden  all  that  time.  Her  cottage  had  only  two  rooms, 
with  a kind  of  shed  or  lean-to,  which  served  as  scullery.  Asked  at 
what  hour  she  lighted  her  candle,  she  replied  that  she  did  so  about 
dusk. 

The  counsel  did  not  guess  what  really  happened — that  the  widow^ 
busy  in  the  sleeping-room  with  her  daughter,  let  her  gorse-fire  burn 
out,  and,  being  short  of  fuel,  did  not  re-light  it,  bitter  cold  as  it  was, 
till  she  wished  to  boil  her  tea-kettle  after  Everard  had  left  the  vlark, 
fireless  cottage,  under  the  impression  that  it  was  untenanted ; and 
the  poor  woman’s  pride  rendered  her  by  no  means  eager  to  volun- 
teer this  information.  The  daughter  corroborated  her  mother’s 
statement,  knowing  nothing  of  the  extinguished  fire  or  her  mother’s 
occupation  at  the  time  of  Everard’s  visit,  that  of  cutting  gorse-stems 
in  the  shed.  Wood,  the  laborer,  who,  beguiled  by  the  cheery  glow 
of  the  widow’s  fire  on  his  evening  walk  home,  got  his  pipe-light  and 
cup  of  tea  at  the  eottage,  gave  evidence  that  the  fire  was  alight. 
Mr.  Hawkshaw  thought  his  client  a fool  to  invent  so  lame  a story. 
Everard  believed  that  he  was  under  the  influence  of  some  dreadful 
nightmare,  which  must  speedily  end. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  Alma  Lee  who  appeared  in  the  witness-box  was  a very  dif- 
ferent being  from  the  happy  and  innocent  girl  who  rode  home  in 
Long’s  wagon  to  the  music  of  the  bells,  in  the  gray  November  even- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


175 


ing,  unconscious  of  the  complicated  meshes  of  trouble  which  the 
fates  were  weaving  about  the  simple  strand  of  her  commonplace  lot. 

Her  experience  of  the  bitter  realities  of  life  had  added  a terrible 
luster  to  her  beauty,  and  developed  her  character  in  an  unexpected 
direction.  It  was  a nature,  as  Lilian  said,  full  of  noble  possibilities 
and  strong  for  good  or  for  evil,  and  in  its  perversion  it  resembled 
some  mighty  stream  turned  aside  from  its  natural  course,  and  over- 
flowing its  banks  in  new  and  disastrous  ways,  bringing  devastation 
where  it  should  have  brought  blessing.  The  shame  which  would 
have  crushed  slenderer  and  sweeter  natures  kindled  a scornful  in- 
dignation in  Alma,  and  a sense  of  the  cruel  disproportion  of  her 
punishment  to  her  guilt — a guilt  which  looked  angel-faced  by  the 
side  of  a thousand  deeper  sins  which  daily  pass  not  only  unavenged, 
but  almost  as  matters  of  course — kindled  a fierce  resentment  in  her. 
Sufiering  had  hardened  her ; she  was  a moral  ruin,  and  when  she 
stepped  with  a firm  and  not  ungraceful  carriage  into  the  witness- 
box,  and  looked  round  the  court  with  haughty  defiance,  every  one 
compared  her  bearing  with  that  of  the  prisoner,  and  pronounced 
them  a pair  of  impenitent  evil-doers. 

Alma’s  features  had  lost  their  youthful  softness  and  indecision 
of  outline ; they  were  now  like  chiseled  marble,  firm  and  pure  and 
beautiful  in  curve.  They  had  indeed  been  chiseled  into  shape  by  the 
sharp  strokes  of  passion  and  suffering  and  wrong — terrible  sculp- 
tors, to  whom  the  human  face  is  as  wax  ready  for  modeling.  The 
dark,  almond-shaped,  rather  melancholy  eyes  now  burned  with  the 
fire  of  intense  resolution  ; the  full,  rich  red  lips  were  fuller,  but  firm- 
er; they  met  in  a curve  of  sharpest  accuracy,  their  former  pretty 
wilfulness  forgotten  with  girlhood  and  innocence.  Her  figure  had 
expanded  into  a statuesque  nobility,  and  all  rustic  awkwardness  in 
her  gestures  was  now  swallowed  up  in  the  unconscious  dignity  of 
her  tragic  fate. 

Her  appearance  created  great  surprise,  and  a murmer  of  invol- 
untary admiration  stirred  the  court  as  she  entered  the  box,  and  cast 
her  defiant  glance  around.  It  was  no  gentle,  penitent  Magdalen,  as 
people  expected,  but  a proud,  self-reliant  woman,  magnificent  even 
in  ruin.  The  girl  in  the  wagon  said  her  prayers  daily,  hoped  for 
heaven,  and  would  by  no  means  have  told  a lie  : so  she  thought,  for 
she  had  never  endured  temptation,  and  had  never  needed  to  prac- 
tice self-restraint  in  her  easy,  simple  life,  though  she  knew  self- 
denial,  but  it  was  the  self-denial  of  impulse,  not  principle.  The 


176 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


woman  in  the  witness-box  still  prayed— she  had  prayed  for  the 
death  of  her  unborn  child — but  she  no  longer  hoped  for  heaven. 
She  knew  that  it  is  not  for  such  as  love  man  more  than  Xlod,  and 
renounce  it  at  the  bidding  of  another,  and  yet  she  did  not  repent ; 
she  knew  that  her  brief  season  of  evil-doing  was  the  sweetest  in 
her  life,  sweeter  far  than  any  hopes  of  heaven  had  ever  been ; 
she  regretted  only  that  it  was  past  for  ever.  She  was  now  an  out- 
cast from  heaven  above  and  from  the  world  below,  and  lies  were 
of  little  consequence  to  her. 

x\s  she  stood  in  the  witness-box,  one  voice  rang  in  her  earti 
and  through  her  heart  jvith  these  words  of  terror : Oh,  Alma, 

save* me,  saVe  me!  You  know  I never  meant  it!”  It  was  almost 
thd  last  voice  she  heard  before  the  terrible  darkness  that  came 
upon  her  when  she  felt  that  her  hour  was  come,  and  there  was 
no  one  to  pity  her.  When  at  last  the  darkness  cleared  and  her 
reason  returned,  that  voice  rang  piercingly  through  all  the  cham- 
bers of  her  brain,  awakening  all  the  bitter  misery  of  the  past 
months  with  the  added  tragedy  of  that  fatal  night,  and  making 
her  wish  she  had  never  been  born.  * 

But  nature,  so  inexorably  just  in  exacting  debts,  is  equally  just 
in  paying  them,  and  had  in  reserve  an  unsuspected  store  of  wealth 
for  the  unfortunate  girl.  When  she  saw  the  beautiful  child  for 
whose  death  she  had  prayed,  a fresh  spring  opened  within  her, 
and  she  rejoiced  over  him  with  the  strong  passion  of  her  nature. 
Once  more  she  had  something  to  love  and  live  for,  to  devote  her- 
self to  body  and  soul,  something  entirely  her  own,  all  the  more 
her  own  that  he  was  scorned  and  rejected  by  others.  Her  joy  in 
this  innocent  creature  restored  her  to  health  of  mind  and  body, 
and  deepened  her  old,  never-dying  love  for  the  man  who  had  long 
ceased  to  love  her — the  man  whose  imploring  cry,  ‘‘  Oh,  Alma, 
save  me,  save  me ! ” always  rang  in  her  heart. 

Mr.  Braxton,  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution,  handled  this  his 
favorite  witness  with  the  utmost  delicacy  of  his  art.  To  have  her 
sworn,  and  say,  “I  am  Alma  Lee,  etc.;  the  deceased,  Benjamin 
Lee,  was  my  father.  I last  saw  him  alive  on  the  afternoon  of  De- 
cember 31,”  was  simple  enough,  but  the  difficulty  was  to  get  any- 
thing more  from  her.  It  was  between  four  and  five  o’clock,  she 
said,  under  the  dexterous  handling  of  Mr.  Braxton — a handling 
fiercely  criticised  by  Mr.  Hawkshaw,  and  often  provoking  a battle 
royal  between  the  counsel,  and  obliging  Mr.  Justice  Manby  more 


THh  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND. 


177 


than  once  to  cast  his  truncheon  into  the  arena  as  a signal  to  cease 
fighting.  She  was  in  the  wood  known  as  Temple  Copse  with  a 
friend.  That  friend,  she  admitted  reluctantly  at  length,  was  her 
child’s  father ; his  name  could  in  no  wise  be  extracted  from  her. 

“^Yere  you  in  the  wood  by  appointment?”  from  Mr.  Brax- 
ton. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did  the  torn  letter  produced  refer  to  the  appointment  ? ” 

‘‘  Yes.” 

“ Was  it  written  by  the  prisoner?  ” 

Furious  onslaught  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Hawkshaw,  interposition 
of  Mr.  Justice  Manby,  and  repetition  of  the  question  in  a different 
form. 

“ By  whom  was  the  letter  produced  written  ? ” 

Silence  on  the  part  of  witness.  At  last,  after  delicate  manipula- 
tion on  the  part  of  Mr.  Braxton,  “ It  was  written  by* the  person  I 
met  in  the  wood.” 

Sensation  in  court,  which  was  crowded,  and  included  a few 
ladies  of  lovely  feature  and  rich  attire. 

Alma  continued,  amid  a repetition  of  skirmishes  between  the 
two  counsel,  and  many  rebellions  against  Mr.  Braxton  on  her  own 
part,  to  give  the  following  evidence.  She  had  been  standing  on 
the  spot  where  her  father  subsequently  fell  for  some  minutes  with 
the  mysterious  friend,  who  was  dressed  in  the  fatal  gray  suit,  and 
carried  the  stick  produced  in  court.  He  offered  her  money  for  her 
child’s  support — a bag  of  gold.  This  she  had  refused  many  times, 
when  her  father  appeared  suddenly. 

He  carried  a stick — a rough  and  heavy  staff  fresh  cut  from  the 
hedge — was  angry  and  excited,  dashed  the  bag  of  gold  to  the 
ground,  stamped  on  it,  and  began  upbraiding  the  young  man.  He 
ordered  his  daughter  to  leave  them,  and  she  did  so.  She  waited 
outside  the  copse,  listening,  and  fearful  that  something  would  hap- 
pen. She  heard  voices  indistinctly,  and  at  last  sounds,  like  men 
struggling.  She  turned  faint,  and  when  she  recovered  a little  there 
was  silence. 

She  was  returning  to  the  wood,  when  a figure  rushed  toward 
her,  bleeding  in  the  face,  the  gray  suit  torn  and  stained,  and 
covered  with  brambles  and  dead  leaves.  He  said — here  the  wit- 
ness broke  down,  and  wept  so  bitterly  that  she  could  not  speak 
for  some  time — he  said  that  he  had  killed  her  father  by  an  acoi- 


178 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


dental  blow  that  he  had  given  in  defending  himself ; that  Lee  had 
assaulted  him  with  great  violence,  of  which  he  bore  the  mark ; 
and  at  last  he  entreated  her  to  save  him.  “I  promised  that  I 
would  never  betray  him,”  said  Alma,  with  calm  simplicity,  as  she 
drew  her  black  drapery  round  her,  “ and  I never  will.”  She  re- 
lated further  that  she  bid  him  leave  the  spot  quickly,  before  her 
mother  returned  from  Malbourne  and  met  him,  and  that  he  did  so, 
and  that  she  herself  regained  her  home  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
went  to  bed,  being  very  ill,  and  knew  and  heard  nothing  of  the 
search  for  and  discovery  of  her  father’s  body  until  her  partial  re- 
covery weeks  later. 

The  evidence  of  Judkins  was  fuller  than  that  he  gave  at  Oldport. 
He  deposed  to  seeing  Alma  enter  the  wood  shortly  before  Everard 
entered  it  from  the  opposite  direction.  Ingram  Swaynestone  also 
witnessed  to  seeing  her,  or  rather  a female  form  which  he  supposed 
to  be  hers,  among  the  hazels  which  bordered  the  copse,  as^  he  rode 
up  the  meadow  before  he  met  the  gray-suited  figure.  Swayne- 
stone had  often  seen  the  two  together  in  the  spring,  Lnew  that 
Everard  visited  Mrs.  Lee  twice  a day,  and  had  seen  Alma  accom- 
pany him  on  his  homeward  way  some  distance,  in  earnest  conver- 
sation with  him.  Judkins,  in  describing  these  meetings,  said,  in 
the  witness-box,  ‘‘  They  walked  slow  and  strolling,  like  people  who 
keep  company.” 

AU  this  Alma  admitted.  Dr.  Everard  made  her  accompany  him 
through  a field  or  two  sometimes,  she  said,  that  she  might  have  fresh 
air,  which,  he  said,  she  needed.  He  used  to  give  her  directions 
about  her  mother,  and  receive  her  account  of  her  symptoms ; he 
used  also  to  ask  her  about  plants,  explain  them  to  her,  and  ask  her 
to  procure  him  specimens.  They  could  not  say  much  respecting 
the  symptoms  before  the  woman  who  helped  to  nurse  Mrs.  Lee, 
because  she  was  indiscreet,  and  told  all  to  the  patient.  Dr.  Ever- 
ard had  given  her  a book  or  some  trifle  every  Christmas  since  she 
was  six  or  seven  years  old. 

Alma  was  told  of  the  peril  of  concealing  a felony,  she  was 
threatened  with  committal  for  contempt,  she  was  informed  that 
she  became  an  accessory  to  her  father’s  death  after  the  fact  if  she 
continued  to  conceal  the  name  of  the  murderer  ; but  she  was  stub- 
born, trembling  and  turning  pale  at  the  words  ‘‘  accessory  after  the 
fact.”  She  was  further  told  that  her  oath  required  her  not  only  to 
say  whether  or  no  the  prisoner  was  the  man  who  dealt  the  fatal 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


d79 


blow,  but  to  reveal  the  name  of  the  actual  murderer,  supposing  the 
accused  to  be  innocent. 

Alma  trembled  more  and  more  as  her  examination  proceeded  ; 
the  heavy  air  made  her  giddy  and  faint,  and  the  unaccustomed  ex- 
citement and  agitation  of  her  terrible  position  confused  her  facul- 
ties. To  the  question,  “ Had  the  prisoner,  on  leaving  the  wood, 
the  stick  produced  in  his  hand?  ” she  replied,  “Ho  ; he  was  wring- 
ing his  hands,”  and  she  made  similar  slips;  and,  finally,  to  the 
question,  “ Is  the  man  who  met  you  in  the  copse  the  prisoner  in 
the  dock,  or  some  other  man?  ” she  replied,  with  a sob  and  a shud- 
der, in  wmrds  that  thrilled  every  ear  in  the  building,  “It  is  the 
prisoner.” 

When  Everard  heard  these  fatal  words,  he  trembled  so  that  he 
seemed  about  to  fall ; the  sweat  of  agony  stood  on  his  brow,  and 
dabbled  the  short,  curly  brown  hair  that  he  had  pushed  over  it  in 
the  growing  agitation  of  Alma’s  evidence ; and  the  eyes  with  which 
he  gazed  upon  the  pale  and  shuddering  witness  had  a dazed  and 
filmy  look.  In  one  moment  the  real  truth  flashed  upon  him,  illumi- 
nated by  the  lightning  of  Alma’s  passionate  glances,  and  the  whole 
history  arranged  itself  dramatically  before  him  in  its  minutest  details 
with  a vivid  distinctness  that  never  more  left  him. 

I Glimpses  of  truth  more  bitter  than  death  to  believe  had  come 
upon  him  many  a time  before,  only  to  be  driven  away  by  the  scorn- 
ful incredulity  of  a loyal  and  generous  nature.  As  the  evidence  de- 
veloped before  him,  these  glimpses  became  more  frequent  and  more 
difiicult  to  combat,  though  the  hateful  suspicions  were  never  dwelt 
upon ; but  now,  in  that  moment  of  vivid,  heart-piercing  revelation, 
every  little  suspicious  circumstance,  unnoticed  at  the  time,  rose  up 
with  magic  swiftness,  and  fitted  into  its  natural  place  in  one  long 
unbroken  chain  of  perfectly  sequent,  convincing  evidence.  Words, 
gestures,  accents,  once  regarded  in  such  diflferent  lights,  now  showed 
clear  in  one  lurid  flame;  widely  floating  reminiscences,  conjectures, 
hypotheses  ryshed  together  in  a coherent  whole,  and  an  awful  sense 
of  the  mystery  of  human  iniquity  cau;3ed  Everard’s  soul  to  swoon 
within  him.  A faint  groan  escaped  him,  audible,  low  as  it  was,  in 
the  startled,  momentary  silence  of  the  court. 

“There  is  no  God,”  he  said  within  himself;  “there  is  no  good, 
no  help  anywhere.” 

After  this  the  trial,  which  was  virtually  at  an  end,  seemed  to 
have  no  further  interest  for  him.  He  stood  in  his  dreadful  place 


180 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


like  one  crucified,  and  listened  abstractedly  to  the  further  proceed- 
ings— Alma’s  cross-examination,  Mr.  Braxton’s  triumphant,  “ That, 
my  lord,  closes  the  evidence  for  the  prosecution,”  Mr.  Hawkshaw’s 
labored  and  lame  address,  the  few  and  feeble  witnesses  for  the  de- 
fense, and  the  judge’s  able  and  comprehensive  summing-up — with  a 
listless  face  and  a soul  full  of  darkness. 

Cyril  was  not  in  court  when  Alina’s  examination  was  thus  con- 
cluded. He  had  listened  to  part  of  it  on  the  previous  day,  and  then 
rushed  away,  unable  to  bear  it.  On  this  morning  he  had  felt  un- 
equal to  hearing  more,  and  a friend,  seeing  his  condition  of  mental 
unrest,  had  recommended  him  to  try  a brisk  walk,  promising  to  tell 
him  what  passed  whenever  he  should  return  to  the  vicinity  of  the 
court.  Cyril  wandered  restlessly  about,  more  haggard  and  feverish 
than  ever,  trying  to  brace  himself  to  the  performance  of  his  obvious 
and  long-neglected  duty,  and  yet,  with  the  unreason  of  weak  and 
sanguine  temperaments,  hoping  against  hope  that  something  might 
still  turn  up  to  absolve  him  from  the  necessity  before  \^hich  every 
fiber  of  his  being  shuddered  in  mortal  anguish. 

The  old-fashioned  streets  seemed  to  him  like  the  architecture  of 
dreams,  and  the  figures  hurrying  to  and  fro  had  no  more  reality  for 
him  than  the  flitting  phantoms  of  a nightmare.  The  blood  throbbed 
in  his  temples  like  the  piston  of  a steam-engine;  he  wondered  how 
his  brain  had  borne  its  dreadful  pressure  so  long.  He  wandered 
into  the  sweet,  sunny  stillness  of  the  close,  and  strove  to  calm  him- 
self by  the  peaceful  suggestions  and  hallowed  associations  of  the 
semi-monastic  spot.  The  voices  of  children  at  play  came  harmoni- 
ously over  the  wall  of  the  canons’  gardens ; some  quietly  dressed 
ladies  went  by;  the  dean  issued  from  beneath  the  lovely  pointed 
arches  which  formed  a porch  to  the  Deanery,  and  walked  with  a 
dignified  quiet,  free  from  loitering,  across  the  sunshiny  grass.  Cyril 
looked  wistfully  at  his  bland,  wholesome,  yet  delicate  face,  and  re- 
marked to  himself  on  the  peculiarly  English  combination  of  piety 
and  aristocracy  which  is  the  special  note  of  the  higher  ranks  of 
Anglican  clergy,  and  wondered  whether  piety  or  aristocracy  were 
the  larger  ingredient  in  the  mixture  so  pleasing  to  some  minds. 
Tears  afterward  he  recalled  these  idle  reflections,  as  people  recall 
the  trifles  which  belong  to  the  critical  moments  of  life  and  become 
stamped  upon  the  memory  along  with  the  crises  themselves.  The 
rooks  were  busy  in  the  great  leafless  elms,  sailing  across  the  blue 
sky,  or  clustering  about  the  boughs  with  a confused,  reiterated  caw* 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


181 


ing,  which  recalled  the  downs  of  home  and  the  white  peace  of  boy- 
hood. 

The  massive  cathedral  looked  solemnly  peaceful  in  the  bright,  cold 
spring  sunshine,  which  made  the  flying  buttresses  and  other  salient 
points  cast  sharply  cut  shadows  on  its  gray  surface.  It  seemed  to 
ofier  peace  to  Cyril’s  distracted  soul,  and  he  left  the  sunshine  and 
entered  the  vast  building,  soothed  for  a moment  by  its  shadowy 
echoing  .stillness.  Some  idea  of  betaking  himself  to  prayer  pos- 
sessed him,  but  he  could  not  collect  his  thoughts,  and  he  rose  from 
his  knees  and  paced  the  echoing  aisles,  looking  up,  as  if  for  help, 
into  the  deep  shadow  of  the  arched  roof.  Some  organ  notes  soon 
soared  thither — a brief  prelude ; then  Mendelssohn’s  air,  “ If  with 
all  your  hearts  ye  truly  seek  Me.”  His  fancy  supplied  the  mellow 
pathos  of  a tenor  voice  to  the  lovely  melody,  and  he  stood  beneath 
the  solid  arches  of  the  great  Morman  transept,  wistful  and  hushed 
for  a moment. 

“ Oh  that  I knew  where  I might  And  him  ! ” he  echoed. 

The  air  died  away,  and  after  a brief  pause,  one  of  Bach’s  mag- 
nificent fugues  was  thundered  forth  in  complex,  ever-increasing 
majesty,  till  it  seemed  charged  with  the  agony  and  passion  and  ex- 
ultation of  some  great  war  of  young  and  mighty  nations,  full  of  the 
“confused  noise  and  garments  rolled  in  blood,”  which  belong  to  the 
warrior’s  battle.  The  tumult  echoed  through  all  the  recesses  of  Cy- 
ril’s being ; it  gave  an  outlet  to  the  stormy  agitation  within  him.  He 
surrendered  himself  to  the  full  power  of  the  mighty  harmony,  glad 
to  lose  himself  if  but  for  a moment.  But  the  conflict  of  the  contra- 
puntal parts  harmonized  too  Veil  with  the  conflict  in  his  soul ; it 
was  no  longer  a battle  of  the  warrior,  but  a strife  of  powers,  celes- 
tial and  infernal. 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hand,  leaning  against  a pillar,  and 
seemed  to  see  countless  legions  of  warring  angels  flash  in  glittering 
cohorts  over  the  universe,  and  then  to  hear  the  crash  of  the  counter- 
charge of  the  dusky  armies  of  hell.  Mow  the  bright-armored  squad- 
rons are  driven  back,  and  Cyril’s  heart  shakes  within  him.  Is  hell 
stronger  than  heaven?  Shall  wrong  conquer  right?  Michael,  the 
Prince  himself,  is  driven  back,  and  the  fiend,  with  the  face  of  marred 
but  never-forgotten  glory,  is  triumphant.  But  no ; the  adamantine 
swords  flash  out  again,  the  dazzling  wings  cleave  the  blue  ether, 
and  the  vast  squadrons  of  dusky  horror  are  driven  back — back  into 
endless  abysses  of  chaotic  night. 


182 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


The  angel  trumpets  peal  out  in  heart-stirring  triumph,  the  music 
ceases,  and  Cyril  is  left  alone,  his  cheek  pressed  against  the  chill, 
rough  stone,  and  hot  tears  rushing  down  his  face.  Was  the  angel 
combat  for  a human  soul?  or  was  all  that  tumult  of  war  only  the 
strife  within  one  narrow  human  breast?  In  that  case,  he  felt 
he  was  undone — his  will  was  too  weak;  evil  was  too  strong  for 
him.  He  could  find  no  peace,  even  in  that  holy  place.  He  turned 
and  paced  rapidly  down  the  long  nave,  and  offered  to  a stray  sight- 
seer, in  his  abstraction,  the  striking  spectacle  of  an  ascetic-looking 
young  clergyman  wearing  his  hat  in  a cathedral. 

“Young  man,”  said  the  stranger,  solemnly  accosting  him,  “are 
you  aware  that  this  building  is  consecrated  ? ” 

Cyril  flushed,  and  tore  off  his  hat,  murmuring  some  words  of  ex- 
planation. Then  he  rushed  out  into  the  sunshine,  where  he  met 
his  friend,  evidently  big  with  tidings. 

“ Well?  ” he  asked,  his  lips  growing  dry  with  apprehension. 

“Well,  Maitland,  I am  afraid  it  is  all  up  with  the  poor  fellow. 
There  is  no  doubt  now ; Alma  Lee  has  confessed  all.”' 

“All?”  asked  Cyril,  steadying  himself  against  the  stone  lintel 
of  the  side  door. 

“Yes.  She  was  outside  the  copse.  She  heard  a struggle;  Ev- 
erard  rushed  out,  covered  with  blood,  and  said  he  had  accidentally 
struck  the  fatal  blow  in  self-defense,  and  implored  her  to  save 
him.” 

“Everard?  Did  she  swear  that  Everard  did  it?”  asked  Cyril, 
in  a strained,  unmusical  voice. 

“Yes;  she  swore  to  him  at  last."  I^ot  that  any  one  ever  had 
the  slightest  doubt.  Poor  fellow!  he  should  have  pleaded  guilty. 
After  all,  what  is  accidental  homicide  in  self-defense?  ” 

“What  indeed!”  returned  Cyril,  in  the  same  strange  voice, 
with  an  unusual  look  in  his  face. 

He  was  silent  for  a while,  and  his  friend  said  nothing,  sympa- 
thizing with  his  trouble.  Then  he  pulled  himself  from  the  lintel 
with  an  effort,  and  walked  quickly  away.  “ I must  go  to  the  court 
at  once,”  he  said,  with  quiet  determination. 

“I  would  stay  away  if  I were  you,”  said  the  friend,  accompany- 
ing him  nevertheless.  “ After  all,”  he  added,  with  blundering  at- 
tempts at  consolation,  “the  poor  fellow  has  not  been  to  blame. 
As  for  that  entanglement,  Maitland,  you  must  not  judge  it  from  a 
clerical  point  of  view.  The  world  smiles  on  these  youthful  follies. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


183 


As  a medical  man  in  practice,  it  would  have  gone  against  him ; hut 
then,  he  is  not  yet  in  practice,  and  every  one  knows  that  young 
blood  is  not  iced.  His  blunder  was  in  denying  it.  If  he  had  but 
pleaded  guilty,  Manby  would  have  let  him  down  easily  enough. 
Such  a magnificent  girl,  too ! Few  men  but  Braxton  would  have 
dragged  it  out  of  her.  She  looked  like  death  when  she  said  it. 
You  see,  she  had  sworn  to  shield  him.  Fancy  letting  that  out  in 
the  witness-box!  ” 

“ You  see,”  interrupted  Cyril,  suddenly — for  this  kind  of  talk 
was  more  than  he  could  bear — “ I am  a clergyman,  and  must  look 
at  these  things  from  a clerical  point  of  view.” 

Cyril’s  very  slight  evidence  had  not  been  of  sufficient  importance 
to  be  repeated  at  the  trial ; Lilian’s  was,  however,  deemed  impor- 
tant from  its  very  feebleness  and  the  evident  reluctance  with  which 
she  gave  it.  Mr.  Braxton  was  so  very  sarcastic  about  her  reasons 
for  disbelieving  the  evidence  of  her  senses,  that  even  Mr.  Justice 
Manby,  who  was  human,  and  touched  by  Lilian’s  gentle  and  sorrow- 
ful dignity — not  to  speak  of  her  youth  and  beauty — threw  the  aegis 
of  his  office  over  her,  and  pronounced  Mr.  Braxton’s  observations 
to  be  irrelevant. 

The  other  witnesses  merely  repeated  what  has  already  been  re- 
corded, though  with  more  detail,  and  all  stood  cross-examination 
well.  Mr.‘ Hawkshaw’s  endeavors  to  show  that  Judkins’s  suspi- 
cions of  Everard  were  but  the  forgeries  of  jealousy,  served  only  to 
fasten  the  imputation  more  deeply  upon  the  accused.  The  feigned 
handwriting  was  pronounced  by  experts  to  be  that  of  Everard; 
they  relied  greatly  upon  the  formation  of  a capital  T,  which  was 
made  in  the  French  manner,  Everard  smiled  mournfully  when 
he  heard  this.  He  thought  of  the  far-ofip  school-time,  when  he  and 
the  twins  had  been  first  puzzled  and  then  enchanted  by  their  French 
teacher’s  T’s ; he  thought  of  one  wet  afternoon,  when  they  got  a 
gridiron  and  heated  it  red-hot,  and  had  a mock-masonic  initiation, 
of  which  the  house-dog  Rover — swathed  in  a dressing-gown,  and 
occasionally  uttering  whines  of  remonstrance — was  Grand  Master; 
and  how  they  vowed  absurd  vows,  one  of  which  was  to  be  ever 
faithful  to  the  persecuted  French  T.  He  recalled  a solemn  discus- 
sion at  the  end  of  the  initiation  as  to  the  amount  of  guilt  which 
would  be  incurred  by  either  of  the  twins  in  breaking  their  vows. 
Cyril  argued  that  neither  of  them  could  singly  commit  more  than 
half  a crime ; and  Henry  replied  that  in  that  case  neither  ought 


184 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


singly  to  eat  more  than  half  a dinner.  All  this  happy  and  guileless 
fooling  enacted  itself  again  in  Everard’s  memory  while  his  fate  was 
being  decided  in  the  serious  strife  of  the  barristers,  who  pleaded  for 
and  against  his  innocence,  and  made  him  feel,  like  Francesca  da 
Rimini  in  hell,  that  ‘‘  there  is  no  greater  pain  than  remembering 
happy  times  in  misery.” 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

Eyeey  one  felt  the  defense  to  be  a mere  farce,  insufficient  to 
kindle  interest,  much  less  hope,  even  in  the  prisoner.  Little  Rosa- 
lia Grove,  the  child  who  saw  and  spoke  with  Everard  at  Long’s 
farm  between  five  and  six  on  the  evening  of  the  31st,  was  but  five 
years  old,  and,  on  being  produced  in  the  town  hall  at  Oldport,  did 
nothing  but  weep  bitterly  and  cling  to  her  father  for  comfort.  His 
caresses  and  remonstrances  failed  to  extract  anything  from  her.  He 
could  only  depose  that  she  had  shown  him  a penny  just  given  her 
by  “a  man,”  when  he  came  in  to  tea  at  six ; that  she  said  that  the 
man  wanted  Dr.  Everard’s  parcel,  which  she  had  seen  her  mother 
take  to  the  Rectory. 

The  appearance  of  Winnie  Maitland’s  golden  curls  in  the  wit- 
ness-box touched  people  and  kindled  deep  indignation  in  the  breasts 
of  both  judge  and  jury,  who  thought  the  child  had  been  practiced 
upon.  Her  first  performance  was  to  cry  with  fright,  though  she 
stated  her  name  and  age  distinctly,  and  took  her  oath  properly. 
She  understood  the  nature  of  an  oath,  she  said ; her  sister  Lilian 
had  explained  it  to  her,  and  enjoined  her  to  be  very  careful  in  what 
she  said.  On  being  asked  what  she  supposed  would  be  the  conse- 
quence of  her  swearing  carelessly,  she  replied  that  “ Henry  would 
be  hanged,”  an  idea  she  had  imbibed  from  Lennie,  during  many 
anxious  consultations  with  him. 

She  did  not  know  exactly  at  what  time  Everard  returned  to  the 
Rectory ; it  was  “ about  tea-time.”  She  did  not  know  what  clothes 
he  wore ; he  was  in  a great  hurry  to  go  up-stairs,  to  get  ready  for 
dinner.  She  told  him  there  was  no  hurry,  as  it  was  long  before 
dinner-time ; but  he  replied  that  he  was  not  fit  to  go  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. Cross-examined,  she  said  he  was  “ in  a dreadful  mess,” 
words  used  by  Everard.  She  pleaded  for  just  one  toss,”  and  he 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


183 


threw  her  up  in  the  air  and  caught  her  several  times.  She  did  not 
remember  striking  him,  or  coming  in  contact  with  him.  The  hall 
in  which  the  playing  took  place  was  not  well  lighted. 

All  of  a sudden  he  set  her  down,  and  said,  “ You  have  done  it 
now;  blinded  me.’’  She  cried,  and  made  him  promise  not  to  tell; 
she  was  always  getting  into  trouble  for  rough  play.  He  went  into 
the  kitchen,  and  came  out  again  with  raw  beef.  She  followed  him 
to  his  room,  and  he  showed  her  some  flowers,  and  told  her  to  take 
them  to  her  sister,  and  not  to  come  bothering  him  any  more.’’ 
She  was  trying  so  hard  to  play  gently,  and  she  did  not  know  she 
touched  him.  His  eye  was  very  bad,  hut  he  did  all  he  could  to  hide 
it,  and  said  at  dinner  that  he  had  knocked  it  against  something. 

Granfer,  who  entered  the  witness-box  with  a vague  notion  that 
his  conversational  powers  had  at  last  a worthy  sphere,  repeated 
what  he  said  at  Oldport  with  the  same  circumlocution  and  affecta- 
tion of  stupidity,  and  parried  Mr.  Braxton’s  questions,  and  dealt 
him  cutting  rejoinders,  with  an  apparent  absence  of  malice  that 
drove  the  Court  into  ecstasies  of  mirth. 

Mr.  Maitland  and  others  bore  witness  to  Everard’s  good  reputa- 
tion, and  also  to  the  frankness  with  which  he  spoke  of  his  visits  to 
Mrs.  Lee  in  the  spring — a circumstance  which  the  counsel  for  the 
defense  maintained  to  be  incompatible  with  Judkins’s  suspicions  as 
to  the  purpose  of  those  visits. 

After  listening  to  Mr.  Hawkshaw’s  labored,  impassioned,  hut 
totally  illogical  speech  for  the  defense,  no  creature  in  the  court  had 
the  faintest  hope  for  the  prisoner;  the  only  question  now  was  the 
sentence.  Yet  there  was  one  who  dared  to  rely  upon  the  summing- 
up,  and  hope  that  Mr.  Justice  Manby  would  discover  some  technical 
flaw,  which  might  afford  a loophole  for  escape.  This  person  was 
Cyril  Maitland,  who  had  set  out  from  the  cathedral  with  such  in- 
tense determination,  but  whose  courage  had  failed  him  at  first  sight 
of  the  judge  and  that  terrible  array  of  human  faces,  which,  to  his 
excited  ftnagination,  seemed  eager,  with  a wolfish  hunger,  for  the 
shame  and  misery  of  a fellow-creature.  There  stood  his  friend, 
pilloried  before  him,  the  prey  of  those  hungry  glances.  Cyril’s 
heart  bled  for  him,  but  he  felt  that  he  could  never  stand  there  in 
his  place.  That  Everard’s  head  was  bowed,  and  his  eyes  cast  down 
beneath  that  tempest  of  shame,  was  only  natural ; who  could  stand 
before  it? 

The  judge’s  summing-up  was  brief,  terse,  and  ccnvinoing,  Hq 


186  V SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


had  merely  to  recapitulate  the  clear  and  undisputed  evidence — the 
plea  of  alibi  was  contradicted  by  Widow  Dove’s  evidence ; the  ar- 
gument that  the  prisoner  was  not  the  man  whom  so  many  witnesses 
had  seen  returning  to  the  Rectory  at  five,  hut  that  he  was  at  that 
moment  speaking  to  Granfer  at  the  wheelwright’s  corner,  was  quick- 
ly set  aside ; the  evidence  of  the  aged,  semi-imbecile  creature  was 
scarcely  to  be  relied  on  against  that  of  so  many  competent  witnesses^ 
including  the  one  who  had  given  evidence  with  such  reluctance ; the 
attempt  to  turn  the  innocence  of  two  young  children  to  his  own  pur- 
poses was  spoken  of  in  scathing  terms;  the  prisoner’s  nervous  and 
excited  behavior  on  the  evening  of  the  occurrence,  and  his  garbled 
account  of  his  injury  and  strenuous  attempts  to  conceal  it,  were 
pointed  out;  the  jury  were  finally  exhorted  to  concentrate  their 
minds  upon  the  question  whether  the  prisoner  did  or  did  not  kill 
Benjamin  Lee,  regardless  of  all  other  considerations,  and  to  allow 
no  thoughts  of  his  previous  unblemished  reputation  or  tenderness 
for  his  rank  and  prospects  to  interfere  with  their  judgment.  They 
were  to  consider,  the  judge  said,  that  although  the  consequences  of 
such  a crime  were  undoubtedly  tenfold  more  terrible  to  one  in  the 
prisoner’s  station  than  to  an  uneducated  man,  yet  the  guilt  of  one 
with  such  advantages  was  tenfold  greater. 

When  Mr.  Hawkshaw  heard  this,  he  knew  that  not  only  would 
the  jury  return  a verdict  against  his  client,  but  that  the  judge  would 
give  him  a severe  sentence.  Yet  Cyril  hoped  ; he  remembered  that 
there  were  twelve  men  in  the  jury. 

But  he  did  not  wait  long;  a few  seconds  brought  the  unanimous 
verdict.  Guilty  of  manslaughter — a verdict  hailed  by  a quickly 
stifled  murmur  of  approval  from  the  crowded  court. 

Like  a man  suddenly  stabbed,  Cyril  sprang  to  his  feet,  throwing 
up  his  arms  as  men  only  do  in  uncontrollable  agony,  and  addressed 
some  wild  words  to  the  judge.  Stop ! ” he  cried  ; “ I have  evi- 
dence— important  evidence.  The  prisoner  is  innocent!  ” 

Mr.  Justice  Manby,  who  heard  merely  a confused  outcrf,  ordered 
Cyril’s  removal ; Mr.  Maitland,  thinking  his  son  distracted,  pulled 
him  down,  and  strove  to  quiet  him;  there  was  an  attempt  tore- 
move  him,  which  was  met  by  promises  of  good  behavior  on  the 
part  of  those  around  him ; and,  quiet  having  been  procured,  the 
judge  proceeded  to  give  sentence  in  the  usual  form,  but  with  some 
amplification. 

“ Henry  Oswald  Everard,  you  have  been  found  guilty,”  he  said, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


187 


“of  a very  cruel  and  pitiless  crime ; whether  it  was  a murder  com- 
mitted by  deliberate  and  malicious  intention,  or  merely  a homicide 
done  in  the  lieat  of  anger  after  considerable  ])rovocation,  is  known 
only  to  yourself  and  your  Maker.  P>y  the  laws  of  your  country  you 
liavo  been  convicted  of  the  lesser  crime,  and  it  is  my  painful  duty 
to  sentenc.e  you  for  that  crime.”  He  went  on  to  say  bow  very  [)ain  - 
ful  he  found  that  duty,  and  to  expatiate  upon  the  prisoner’s  advan- 
tages, the  pious  and  refined  home  in  which  he  was  brought  up,  his 
liberal  education,  the  power  which  his  scientific  knowledge  gave 
him,  the  advantages  derived  from  his  father’s  honorable  name  and 
social  standing,  the  manner  in  which  lie  was  trusted  and  admitted, 
a wolf  in  sheep’s  clothing,  to  the  poor  man’s  home,  lie  spoke  of 
the  dead  man’s  integrity,  the  respect  in  which  he  was  held  by  all 
who  knew  him  ; of  his  only  child’s  fair  fame  and  defenseless  condi- 
tion, and  i)ointed  out  the  great  wickedness  and  cniel  meanness  of 
the  ])risoner’s  conduct  with  regard  to  her,  and  dwelt  much  upon 
the  father’s  grief  and  just  anger.  Tie  spoke  also  of  the  prisoner’s 
physical  advantages,  his  young  manhood  and  muscular  strength, 
and  contrasted  these  with  Lee’s  comparative  age  and  stifihess ; he 
alluded  to  the  murderous  character  of  the  stick  which  dealt  the  fa- 
tal blow,  and  to  the  prisoner’s  anatomical  knowledge  which  taught 
him  how  to  deal  it.  Those  who  knew  Mr.  Justice  Manby  had  seen 
him  come  down  hard  upon  prisoners  before,  but  they  had  never 
known  him  so  hard,  lie  had  once  given  a wife-killer,  a man  who 
had  put  the  climax  to  years  of  cruel  torture  by  stamping  a little  too 
hard  on  ids  slave  and  killing  her,  five  years,  and  people  had  been 
aghast;  precisely  similar  cases  in  other  parts  of  the  country  had 
got  six  weeks  or  a twelvemonth,  or  even  two  years.  But  recently 
the  paf)crs  had  been  sarcastic  upon  the  wife-beaters’  short  sentences, 
and  upon  a prevailing  tone  of  Victor-llugo  sentimentality  toward 
criminals,  and  Mr.  Justice  Manby  had  felt  the  righteousness  of  their 
strictures,  and  remembered  them  in  dealing  with  Everard.  “ I shall 
therefore  give  yon,”  he  concluded,  “ the  severest  sentence  which, 
the  law  allows — twenty  years  penal  servitude.” 

The  sentence  fell  upon  Everard  like  a blow ; lie  staggered  under 
it,  swerved  aside,  and  clutched  at  the  woodwork  of  the  dock  to 
steady  himself,  while  hot  drojis  sprang  upon  his  brow.  At  the 
same  instant,  as  if  under  the  same  blow,  a cry  rang  through  the 
court,  and  a man  fell  down  senseless.  It  was  Cyril  Maitland. 

Everard  lifted  his  head  at  the  cry,  and  saw  what  happened, 


188 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


scarcely  heeding  it  in  his  agony ; he  saw  Lilian,  marble  pale  but 
quiet,  catch  her  brother  in  her  arms,  and  that  touched  him  with  an 
ineflPable  pity  for  her  through  his  desperate  anguish.  He  scarcely 
heard  the  question  if  he  had  anything  to  say  against  his  sentence, 
but,  on  being  roused,  replied  in  a dazed  way,  “I  am  not  guilty,  my 
lord.” 

Then  he  was  taken  from  his  pedestal  of  shame,  and  led  away 
into  the  terrible  darkness  of  twenty  years’  ignominy  and  hopeless 
sutfering,  bereft  at  one  stroke  of  everything — name,  fame,  fortune 
(for  in  those  days  a felon’s  property  was  forfeited),  love,  liberty, 
and  hope. 

In  a moment  he  saw  his  life  as  it  was  but  yesterday,  before  Fate 
wove  its  dreadful  mesh  round  him,  a life  of  honorable  and  useful 
toil,  full  of  noble  ambition,  beautiful  enthusiasm,  and  honest  striv- 
ing; rich  with  the  promise  of  love  and  domestic  peace ; happy  with 
friendship  and  family  affection ; adorned  with  culture  and  scientific 
research;  and  rich,  above  all,  with  trust  in  human  goodness  and 
divine  mercy.  He  was  now  bereft  of  all,  even  of  his  faith.  God, 
if  there  were  a God,  had  forsaken  him ; man  had  betrayed  and  de« 
serted  him.  The  remembrance  of  Cyril’s  almost  feminine  piety 
sickened  his  soul.  He  saw  him  kneeling  before  the  picture  of  tbe 
Crucifixion  with  deadly  guilt  upon  him ; heard  him  leading  the 
simple  family  worship  on  the  day  when  he  went  forth  in  treachery 
to  take  the  life  of  a man  he  had  wronged ; heard  his  impassioned, 
half-hysterical  sermon  on  Innocents’  Day;  saw  him  dealing  the 
very  Bread  of  Life  to  himself  and  Lilian ; remembered  the  message 
he  had  sent  him  during  his  detention,  “ He  shall  make  thy  right- 
eousness clear  as  the  light,  and  thine  innocence  as  the  noonday”; 
and  broke  forth  in  curses  on  all  canting  hypocrites  who  make  relig- 
ion a cloak  for  evil  deeds. 

And  he  liad  loved  this  man  so  well,  trusted  and  revered  him, 
fed  his  soul  on  his  moral  beauty.  That  was  the  sharpest  stab  in 
the  confusion  of  pain  that  poured  upon  him.  And  Marion  loved 
him,  and  Lilian,  and  the  guileless  family  at  Malbourne;  and  if  Cyril 
should  turn  and  repent  even  now  at  the  eleventh  hour,  what  would 
come  of  it  but  shame  and  misery  to  those  he  loved  so  tenderly  ? 
Should  he  denounce  him  himself  — he,  the  convict?  Ho;  that 
would  only  double  the  anguish  of  all  those  innocent  hearts,  and  per- 
haps avail  nothing.  If  he  had  but  suspected  before ! but  now  it 
was  too  late. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


189 


Soon  lie  would  stand  in  his  jailer’s  presence,  stripped  of  his 
rery  garments,  no  longer  a man,  but  a thing;  called  no  more  by  a 
name,  but  a number;  beggared  in  mind,  body,  and  soul;  and  a 
stony  despair  possessed  him.  Mr.  Hawksbaw  thought  he  might  get 
five  years,  he  told  him,  and  five  years,  or  even  teu,  left  some  small 
room  for  hope.  After  five  years,  youth  would  not  be  utterly  gone ; 
he  might  still  bridge  over  the  gap  in  his  life.  He  might  go  to  some 
new  world  and  begin  over  again,  wasted  by  imprisonment,  with 
five  precious  years  lost,  hut  still  in  the  prime  of  his  faculties.  But 
twenty  years  shut  out  all  hope — twenty  years  of  early  manhood 
and  maturity,  cut  off  from  all  sources  of  mental  activity,  from  all 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  life,  the  echoes  of  whose  onward  roll- 
ing wheels  could  never  reach  him ; chained  to  manual  toil ; herded 
with  the  scum  and  off-scouring  of  vice  and  misery.  Supposing 
that  he  survived  this  awful  fate,  what  could  he  expect  to  he  at  the 
end? 

He  was  glad  now  that  none  of  his  friends  save  Mr.  Maitland  and 
George  Everard  had  seen  him  since  his  arrest.  His  fate  was  beyond 
the  reach  of  sympathy  or  help ; the  only  thing  now  was  to  keep  its 
contamination  to  himself.  He  refused  to  take  leave  of  any  one. 
George  had  irritated  him  by  untimely  exhortations,  by  gifts  of  tracts, 
and  a disbelief  in  his  innocence,  or  rather,  a stubborn  assumption 
that  he  was  guilty  on  all  counts,  which  astonished  him  beyond  meas- 
ure ; Marion  sent  her  love,  and  would  see  him  “ if  he  wished  ” ; 
his  father  and  two  brothers  were  still  abroad ; and  his  married  sis- 
ters agreed  with  their  husbands  that  Henry  was  dead  to  them. 

But  Mr.  Maitland  procured  an  interview  after  the  conviction, 
and  was  accompanied  by  Lilian.  The  meeting  was  brief  and 
agonized.  Lilian’s  marvelous  self-control  kept  her  outwardly  calm, 
while  the  calm  of  utter  despair  quieted  Everard.  He  bid  her  forget 
him,  think  of  him  as  dead;  reminded  her  that  she  had  her  life  to 
live  in  the  outside  world ; and  hoped  she  would  open  her  heart  to 
newer  and  happier  affections.  Lilian  replied  that  she  never  could 
and  never  would  forget  the  one  love  of  her  life;  that  the  cruel  fate 
which  separated  them  for  twenty  years  could  not  cancel  the  bond 
between  them,  which  was  eternal.  “Besides,”  she  added,  with  a 
sorrowful  smile,  “your  innocence  may  yet  be  proved.” 

“My  poor  Lilian, ” he  returned,  thinking  how  bitter  such  a proof 
would  be  for  her,  “ we  must  not  venture  to  hope  for  that.” 

“ I shall  pray  for  it  night  and  day,”  replied  Lilian  ; “ and,  in  the 


190 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


mean  time,  do  not  forget  me,  Henry.  Remember  the  morning  in 
the  wood,  and  all  that  you  promised  me.” 

He  turned  his  face  away,  and  could  not  speak  for  some  time ; 
and  Lilian  continued  in  her  quiet  way  to  tell  him  how  grieved  Cyril 
w^ould  be  to  have  missed  seeing  him,  and  how  terribly  he  had  suf- 
fered by  his  friend’s  calamity.  Lilian  had  only  left  his  bedside  for 
the  short  time  granted  her  to  bid  farewell  to  Everard,  for  Cyril  was 
at  death’s  door.  He  had  not  ceased  raving  since  he  recovered  from 
the  fainting-fit  into  which  the  passing  of  Everard’s  sentence  threw 
him.  All  this  Everard  heard  with  the  same  stony  calmness,  which 
was  shaken  only  by  the  ineffable  pity  he  felt  for  Lilian.  It  would 
be  better  for  her  if  Cyril  should  die,  he  thought,  though  for  himself 
it  would  cut  off  the  last  possibility  of  escape  from  dishonor.  He 
sent  a tender  message  to  Marion,  thanked  Mr.  Maitland  for  all  his 
kindness,  and  then  it  was  time  for  his  friends  to  go. 

“ I shall  never  forget  you,  Henry,”  Lilian  said,  as  their  hands 
were  clasped  in  a last  farewell.  “ I have  but  one  life  and  one  love. 
Twenty  years’  suffering  will  not  make  me  love  you  less.  I can  never 
forget  you— never.” 

Lilian’s  firm  lip  quivered,  as  she  spoke  these  words  in  a voice 
the  natural  music  of  which  was  enhanced  by  the  deepest  mingling 
of  love  and  sorrow,  and  the  quiver  recalled  to  Henry’s  mind  the 
pitiful  trembling  he  had  often  seen  in  Cyril’s  mouth,  the  sign  of  a 
fatal  inherent  weakness  of  purpose.  The  sharpening  of  her  features, 
and  the  pallor  consequent  on  mental  suffering  and  intense  emotion, 
further  increased  Lilian’s  likeness  to  her  twin  brother,  and  Everard 
felt  his  heart  rent  in  twain  by  a tumult  of  conflicting  feelings  as  he 
took  his  last  long  look  at  the  sorrowful,  beloved  face. 

He  could  reply  only  by  a look  which  haunted  Lilian  ever  after, 
and  by  a closer  pressure  of  the  beautiful  adored  hand,  and  then  he 
heard  the  doors  shut  with  a dreadful  heart-crushing  sound  behind  her. 

In  that  moment  of  exquisite  anguish  his  stony  despair  gave  way, 
for  the  farewell  between  true  lovers  can  never  be  all  pain,  and  a 
liolier  though  deeper  agony  shook  his  heart,  mingled  with  a rush  of 
the  old  pity  and  affection  for  his  friend,  and  a thousand  thoughts 
and  feelings  poignant  with  joy  as  well  as  sadness,  and  he  dropped 
his  head  upon  his  hands  and  cried  as  Englishmen,  and  even  English 
boys,  rarely  cry.  He  never  shed  such  tears  again,  though  the  time 
came  when  he  would  have  given  worlds  for  the  power  of  such  a 
passionate  outburst. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


191 


Lilian  also  broke  down  when  the  door  closed  upon  the  unfortu- 
nate prisoner,  and  wept,  regardless  for  once  of  her  father’s  feelings, 
unrestrained  by  the  presence  of  the  stolid  and  indifferent  prison 
officials,  to  all  of  whom  a woman’s  tears  were  a too-familiar  siglit, 
until  she  regained  her  brother’s  room,  and  took  her  part  in  placing 
ice  on  his  burning  head,  and  listening  to  his  incessant  ravings  of  bat- 
tles and  music  and  churches,  and  his  frequent  calls  to  Lilian  to  pro- 
tect him  from  some  shadowy  and  awful  terror.  Then  Lilian  would 
lay  her  hands  gently  and  firmly  upon  him,  and  tell  him  she  was 
there,  and  nothing  should  hurt  him ; and  then  sometimes  a dim 
glimmering  of  consciousness  would  return  to  his  wild  and  vacant 
gaze  for  a moment,  and  he  would  be  quieter  for  a time ; till  at  last, 
after  a long  and  weary  time,  one  day,  when  Lilian  felt  that  her 
strength  was  quite  at  an  end,  he  looked  up  with  a glance  of  recog•^ 
nition  and  spoke  her  name. 

Then  they  were  told  that  he  would  live,  but  whether  his  reasor^ 
would  ever  return  to  him  depended  greatly  upon  his  treatment  dar- 
ing convalescence. 


13 


P A E T II 


‘*A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 
A still  and  quiet  conscience.’’ 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  full  glory  of  late  summer  brooded  in  afternoon  stillness  over 
tfie  golden  harvest-fields,  the  gray  dreamy  downs,  the  deep-shad- 
owed woods,  and  the  soft  azure  glimpses  of  sea  around  Malbournec 
Everything  seemed  wrapped  in  rich,  delicious  luxury.  Improvident 
boys  reveled  in  blackberries,  and  stormed  their  friends’  heavy-laden 
fruit-trees;  while  provident  squirrels  watched  the  swelling  acorns 
and  hazel-nuts,  and  prepared  little  granaries  for  storing  them  when 
ripe.  The  sun  had  drawn  the  richest  tones  of  color  from  everything 
— from  the  ruddying  apple  and  purpling  plum ; from  the  brown-gold 
corn  and  brilliant  wayside  flowers;  from  the  dark  green  woods  and 
purple  clover  patches;  from  the  bronzed  faces  and  limbs  of  the 
laborers  and  children ; from  the  cottage  gardens,  bright  with  scar- 
let-runner, vegetable  marrow,  and  rich  fruit.  Passing  down  the 
village  street,  you  could  scarcely  see  the  thatched  cottages  for  the 
flowers  about  them,  the  gay  hollyhocks  standing  like  homely  senti- 
nels among  the  red  snapdragons,  geraniums,  carnations,  and  gilly- 
flowers; while  the  Rectory  grounds  were  gay  with  their  fullest 
bloom,  and  the  redspur  valerian  climbed  over  the  low  church-yard  ' 
wall,  and  red  poppies  blazed  through  the  corn,  which  stood  ready 
for  the  sickle  on  the  other  side. 

The  yellow  lichens  and  stonecrop  on  the  gray  spire  and  tiled 
roof  of  the  church  glowed  intensely  in  the  sleepy  sunshine,  into 
which  a warm  haze  had  brought  a ruddy  tint,  and  the  blue  sky 
gazed,  softened  and  dreamy,  through  the  same  hazy  veil.  Down 
from  the  belfry,  standing  there  in  the  sweet  blue,  fell  the  sloWj 

« 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


193 


drowsy  chime  of  the  three  old  mellow  bells,  and  floated  pleasantly 
over  the  quiet,  basking  fields,  where  cows  stood  withdrawn  beneath 
the  trees,  chewing  contentedly,  with  lazily  winking  eyes  and  whisk- 
ing tails;  and  the  horses  fed  serenely,  not  knowing  that  they  would 
have  to  drag  all  that  rich  harvest  borne  before  long;  and  the  little 
brook  babbled  faintly  because  of  the  great  heat  which  consumed  it. 

Service  was  over,  and  people  were  straggling  home  through 
fields,  or  lounging  at  garden  gates  in  idleness  and  Sunday  clothes, 
though  the  full  male  toilet  was  subdued  by  a tendency  to  shirt- 
sleeves. Granfer  was  holding  forth  to  a select  circle  outside  the 
low  wall  of  the  church-yard,  where  he  was  wont  to  bask  in  the  sun, 
like  some  novel  species  of  lizard,  the  summer  long.  Farmer  Long 
wms  wending  his  way  slowly  homeward  with  his  family,  full  of 
thought.  He  had  decided  to  cut  his  first  wheat-field,  half  a mile  off, 
on  the  morrow,  and  lo!  he  saw  that  the  corn  through  which  they 
were  passing  was  over-ripe  and  crying  out  for  the  sickle. 

Farmer  Long  was  puzzled.  He  could  not  think  why  Providence 
made  the  corn  ripe  all  at  once,  when  it  was  obvious  that  it  could 
not  all  be  cut,  much  less  carried,,  at  the  same  time.  “You  may 
depend  upon  it,”  his  wife  told  him,  “Providence  have  got  plenty 
to  do  without  thinking  o’  your  earn.  Long.  Cutting  of  it  and  carry- 
ing is  our  lookout.  All  Providence  have  to  do  is  to  put  it  there 
for  us,  and  thankful  we  must  be  there’s  any  to  cut.”  Which  Mr. 
Long  reflected  upon  over  his  pipe  after  tea,  not  without  a remote 
inward  conviction  that  he  would  have  made  better  arrangements 
himself. 

Sunday  afternoon  is  the  great  time  for  sweethearting.  Many  a 
shy  couple  detached  itself  from  the  straggling  parties  going  home- 
ward, and  wandered  off  through  wood  and  field-paths  and  green 
lanes,  for  the  most  part  silent,  but  contented,  if  not  happy,  and  full 
of  mors  unspoken  poetry  than  the  world  dreams  of. 

It  is  a melancholy  time  for  the  forsaken  or  scorned  swain,  who 
cocks  his  felt  hat  in  vain,  and  whose  bunch  of  carnation  or  holly- 
hock, jauntily  stuck  in  his  hat-band,  avails  him  nothing  in  the  eyes 
of  the  cruel  fair.  It  was  the  hour  when  Charles  Judkins’s  misplaced 
passion  gave  him  the  most  exquisite  pangs ; an  hour  which  he  usu- 
ally spent  in  solitary  brooding,  chiefly  by  the  brook-side,  where  he 
was  wont  to  lean  on  a certain  stile,  shaded  appropriately  by  willows, 
and  “pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbled  by,”  just  like  the  unfortu- 
nate youth  in  Gray’s  “ Elegy.”  And  let  no  prosaic  child  of  culture^ 


194 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


who  has  outlived  the  young  days  when  there  was  nothing  so  sweet 
as  the  misery  of  crossed  love,  think  scorn  of  our  friend,  or  laugh  at 
true  love  because  it  wears  livery  or  top-boots.  A garb  more  anti- 
pathetic to  romance  than  that  of  a spruce  groom’s  livery  scarcely 
exists,  but  it  could  not  kill  the  romance  in  Charlie  Judkins’s  honest 
breast.  He  was  dreaming  of  what  might  have  been  but  for  the  sin 
of  one  bad  man. 

A pretty  cottage  filled  his  mind’s  eye,  a cottage  with  a porch 
and  honeysuckle  and  roses,  standing  in  a garden,  not  too  far  from 
the  Swaynestone  stables,  with  hee-hives  and  flowers,  and  fruit,  and 
vegetables,  all  grown  by  himself  in  leisure  hours.  Inside  he  dreamed 
a neat  parlor,  with  a clock,  a sofa,  and  a carpet.  In  a low  chair, 
by  the  window  or  tire  according  to  season,  he  saw  a beautiful 
woman,  with  rich,  dark  eyes  which  brightened  at  his  step,  and 
damask  cheeks  which  took  a deeper  glow  at  his  return.  There 
she  would  he  with  her  needle,  busy,  happy,  honored,  loving,  and 
loved. 

Charlie’s  eyes  clouded  so  with  tears  that  the  vision  vanished, 
and  only  the  brown  brook,  with  its  imprisoned  sunbeams,  met  his 
sorrowful  gaze.  But  the  Mai  bourne  hells  pealed  drowsily  on,  as  he 
had  so  often  dreamed  they  would  peal  for  his  wedding,  when  he 
should  issue  from  the  familiar  porch,  the  proudest  and  happiest  of 
men,  with  Alma — dear  Alma — in  all  her  rich  beauty,  on  his  arm. 

He  turned  hastily  away,  dashing  the  foolish  moisture  from  his 
honest  blue  eyes,  and  struck  aimlessly  along  the  foot-path,  thinking 
how  her  life,  sorely  awry  as  it  was,  might  yet  he  put  straight.  “If 
I could  only  see  her  happy  and  respected  again!  ” w^as  his  thought, 
as  he  strode  along,  consumed  by  no  selfish  grief.  Presently  he 
stopped  at  a gate,  half  overgrown  with  briar  and  hawthorn,  and 
saw  a sight  which  filled  him  with  the  tenderest  emotion. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  brook,  in  a grassy  corner  between  a 
coppice  and  a field  of  ripe  wheat  which  rose  upward  from  the  banks 
of  the  little  stream,  was  Alma  herself,  sitting  on  a felled  tree,  and 
watching  the  play  of  a child  at  her  feet  on  the  grass.  Her  shawl 
and  bonnet  were  thrown  aside,  and  her  plain,  well-fitting,  black 
dress  showed  her  beautiful  form  to  the  best  advantage.  There  was 
now  a statuesque  majesty  about  her  which  matched  well  with  the 
tragedy  never  absent  from  her  proud,  defiant  eyes.  That  habitual 
expression  which  goes  so  far  toward  making  up  the  identity  of  a 
human  being  was  so  changed  in  Alma,  and  her  features  were  so 


THE  SILEHCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND. 


195 


sharpened  by  her  terrible  experience  of  life,  that  to  any  eye  but 
that  of  love  she  was  no  longer  the  same  girl  as  she  who  had  ridden 
home  in  the  gray  winter  gloaming,  happy  and  innocent,  to  the  rustic 
music  of  the  wagon-bells. 

The  dark  green  of  the  coppice  and  the  deep  gold  of  the  corn  ris- 
ing behind  her  gave  her  a picturesque  background,  while  the  beauti- 
ful boy  playing  in  the  grass  at  her  feet  made  such  a foreground  as 
any  artist  must  have  loved.  The  child  was  dressed  daintily  in  white, 
with  blue  ribbons,  and  with  wreaths  of  pink  convolvolus  wound 
about  him.  Alma  had  placed  a bunch  of  scarlet  poppies  in  her  own 
dress  to  attract  his  eye,  and  was  looking  at  him  with  a mournful, 
impassioned  gaze,  while  he  held  up  a tiny  finger  and  bid  her  hark 
to  the  music  of  the  wedding-bells,  which  were  ringing  to  honor 
the  return  of  Cyril  Maitland  and  his  young  bride  to  England  and  to 
Malbourne,  where  they  arrived  only  the  night  before. 

Two  springs  had  scattered  flowers  on  Ben  Lee’s  untimely  grave 
in  Malbourne  church-yard,  two  summers  had  thrown  their  golden 
glory  upon  it,  and  the  months  which  softened  the  hard  letters  on 
his  headstone,  and  braided  the  turfy  mound  above  him  with  mosses, 
had  strengthened  and  developed  the  round  limbs  and  brought  intel- 
ligence to  the  bright  eyes  of  the  second  Ben  Lee,  whose  innocent 
life  began  so  dolorously  where  his  grandfather’s  had  ended  tragic- 
ally. 

It  pleased  Alma  to  fancy  resemblances  to  her  father  in  the  in- 
fant’s sweet  face,  and  the  tenderest  feeling  in  her  life  now  was  the 
occasional  fancy  that  the  child’s  beauty  and  pretty  ways  might  have 
softened  her  father’s  heart,  and  perhaps  have  induced  him  to  pardon 
the  dishonor  she  had  brought  on  his  honest  home.  She  dreamed  of 
their  going  away  to  some  new  place,  where  they  were  not  known, 
and  where  she  might  pass  as  a widow,  and  do  her  best  to  atone  for 
the  evil  past.  Or,  at  least,  he  might  have  loved  the  child,  if  he 
could  not  have  forgiven  her. 

But  harder  and  more  bitter  thoughts  were  passing  through 
Alma’s  mind,  as  she  sat  by  the  brook  that  sunny  afternoon,  and 
smiled  mournfully  on  the  laughing  child,  and  heard  his  soft  prattle 
mingled  with  the  babbling  brook’s  slow  song  and  the  lingering  chime 
of  Cyril  Maitland’s  wedding-bells. 

She  was  thinking  how  she  would  like  to  go  away,  far  away  to 
some  unfamiliar  land,  where  her  sin  and  sorrow  were  unknown, 
and  where  she  might  begin  life  afresh,  and  earn  a good  name  and 


196 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


honorable  up-bringing  for  her  son.  Her  step-mother  had,  as  she 
expressed  it,  washed  her  hands  of  her  after  her  father’s  death,  and 
she  lived  alone  in  a humble  cottage  lodging,  trying  to  earn  her 
bread  by  her  needle,  or,  indeed,  by  any  industry  that  lay  within 
her  power,  and  hoping  in  time  to  live  down  her  reproach. 

But  it  was  not  so  easy  to  get  work  in  Malbourne.  All  classes 
shunned  her ; even  the  gentle  Kector,  who  would  otherwise  have 
given  her  a helping  hand,  could  not  overcome  his  horror  of  the 
woman  who  had  betrayed  Henry  Everard  to  so  terrible  a fate,  and 
wished  her  away  from  his  parish,  offering,  indeed,  to  help  her,  if 
she  would  but  go. 

Still  Alma  clung  to  the  spot  which  held  her  parents’  graves,  and 
fought  manfully  against  the  wall  of  prejudice  w^hich  rose  around 
her,  eating  the  bread  of  tears  and  bitter  humiliation  in  secret,  though 
she  met  the  averted  faces  or  contemptuous  words  of  her  former 
friends  with  heroic  calm  in  public,  but  got  scarcely  any  work.  Ben 
Lee  had  put  by  a considerable  sum  of  money  for  one  in  his  station, 
and  this  was  divided  by  his  will  between  his  wife  and  his  daughter. 
Upon  this  little  capital  Alma  had  been  living,  till  she  woke  to  the 
mournful  conviction  that  there  was  no  bread  for  her  to  win  in  Mal- 
bourne, and  also  that  a day  would  soon  come  when  her  patrimony 
would  be  exhausted. 

Money  found  its  way  mysteriously  to  her  cottage — ^.money  from 
a source  well  known  to  her — for  the  child’s  support;  but  Alma 
scorned  to  use  it,  and,  being  unable  to  return  it  without  betraying 
the  giver,  put  it  aside  for  the  infant’s  use  in  case  of  her  death  or 
any  emergency.  Like  most  women  of  any  force  of  character,  who 
are  thrown  on  their  own  resources,  after  a time  she  began  to  realize 
how  feeble  a being  one  woman  is  against  a world  of  strong  men 
and  iron  prejudices  and  cruel  convictions.  She  could  defy  the  world, 
but  she  could  not  conquer  it.  She  was  too  ignorant  to  quarrel  with 
the  social  arrangements  which  handicap  the  weakness  of  sex  with 
extra  weights,  and  brand  its  errors  as  crimes,  but  a dim  sense  of 
injustice  struggled  within  her,  and  still  further  confused  the  moral 
perceptions  already  confused  by  error  and  crime. 

She  knew  she  could  not  expect  Heaven’s  aid,  with  the  crime  of 
unrepented  perjury  upon  her  soul ; but,  before  the  heavy  hour  when 
she  stood  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man  and  swore  away  the  honor 
and  liberty  of  an  innocent  man,  she  had  had  gleams  of  penitence, 
when  she  had  hoped  to  make  her  peace  with  Heaven,  and  lead  a 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND,  19  7 

holy  life.  After  that  further  plunge  into  crime,  she  could  hope  for 
no  mercy  unless  she  undid  her  dreadful  deed. 

But  though  Alma  went  to  church  and  prayed  for  the  helpless 
child,  who  could  not  pray  for  himself,  and  hoped  at  least  to  place 
his  little  feet  on  the  heavenward  road,  she  thought  daily  less  of 
heaven,  and  was  fast  sinking  into  the  dreadful  practical  atheism  to 
which  sin  leads — the  atheism  which,  because  it  sins  on  unavenged, 
cries,  “Tush!  God  doth  not  regard,”  and  finally  blots  the  Maker 
out  of  the  universe  altogether. 

Alas,  poor  Alma!  she  was  made  for  a nobler  destiny,  and  her 
honest  lover,  seeing  her  there,  with  her  mournful  gaze  and  heroic 
beauty,  felt  his  heart  thrill  with  a vague  sense  that,  in  spite  of  her 
Irailty,  she  was  not  unworthy  of  his  passionate  adoration.  His 
heart  told  him  what  his  untutored  mind  never  could,  that  hers  was 
no  common  frailty,  but  the  lapse  of  an  exceptionally  noble  nature 
led  astray,  and  all  his  hope  was  to  set  her  up  again  on  the  pedestal 
whence  a villain’s  arts  had  hurled  her. 

So  absorbed  was  she  in  melancholy  musing  that  for  a long  time 
she  did  not  observe  him,  and  he  enjoyed  a pensive  rapture  in  the 
mere  sense  of  her  presence  and  the  sight  of  her  tragic  beauty,  so 
w’ell  set  ofl*  by  the  glowing  hues  of  the  golden  corn,  with  the  pop- 
pies blazing  through  it,  by  the  dark  wood,  and  by  the  bright  appear- 
ance of  the  pretty  child  in  his  ribbons  and  fiowers.  He  would  have 
liked  some  enchanter  to  fix  them  there  for  ever,  while  the  child 
and  the  brook  babbled,  the  bees  hummed,  the  grasshopper  uttered 
his  shrill  note  of  joy,  and  the  bells  pealed  on  from  the  hidden  tower. 
He  watched  the  changes  of  her  face  with  compassionate  yearning; 
he  saw  the  pain  deepen  in  it.  She  was  thinking  of  that  morning’s 
experience. 

She  had  been  on  her  way  to  church  as  usual,  a solitary  figure  in 
the  straggling  crowd  of  friends  and  neighbors,  when  those  in  front 
of  her  pressed  back  from  the  lych-gate  to  let  a group  of  gentlefolk 
pass,  and  Alma  found  herself  one  of  a little  line  of  church-goers^ 
with  whom  they  exchanged  greetings.  Mrs.  Maitland  and  Lilian 
came  first,  then  Cyril  and  Marion,  lastly  the  children.  Alma  made 
her  curtsey  with  her  usual  proud  humility,  looking  her  superiors  in 
the  face  with  haughty  calm. 

' Cyril  recognized  his  old  friends  with  the  glances  which  he  knew 
so  web  how  to  distribute,  missing  Alma’s  face  with  the  ease  and 
naturalness  of  good  breeding;  but  Marion’s  eye  lighted  on  the  beau* 


198 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


tiful  face  of  the  ruined  girl,  and  Alma  never  forgot  the  hot  flush  of 
shame  and  the  start  of  shuddering  aversion  witli  which  she  turned 
to  her  husband,  pressing  close  to  his  side  as  if  for  protection,  or 
the  exquisite  tenderness  of  the  look  Cyril  gave  her,  as  he  returned 
tlie  pressure  on  his  arm,  and  quickened  his  pace  to  lead  Marion 
away  from  the  sight  which  so  distressed  her.  The  burning  blood 
sprang  to  Alma’s  face,  her  temples  throbbed  wildly,  and,  in  the 
tumult  of  mingled  passion  which  convulsed  her,  the  impulse  of  a 
tigerish  fury  surged  up,  and  bade  her  rush  before  Marion’s  face,  and 
hurl  her  to  the  ground  with  one  blast  of  truth  shouted  out  in  the 
ears  of  the  little  public  standing  near. 

In  five  words  she  could  bring  Marion’s  pride  for  ever  to  the  dust, 
and  blight  all  the  happiness  of  her  life.  But  the  impulse  sank  amid 
the  roar  of  other  passions,  and  Alma  remained  outwardly  quiet, 
passing  sedately  up  the  church-yard  path  among  the  others,  into 
the  cool,  hushed  church,  where  the  words  of  benediction  and  hope 
sounded  in  vain  for  her. 

^The  poignant  memory  of  Marion’s  look  made  her  eyes  flash  and 
her  bosom  heave  in  the  sunny  stillness  by  the  brook-side,  and  with  a 
deep  sigh  and  a gesture  of  pain  she  looked  up  and  met  poor  ChaHie’s 
adoring  gaze. 

In  a moment  the  gate  on  which  he  leant  was  cleared,  the  bit  of 
meadow  crossed,  the  brook  leapt,  and  he  stood  before  her,  joyously 
welcomed  by  the  child,  who  had  too  few  friends  not  to  appreciate 
this  one,  to  whom  he  owed  many  a toy  and  cake  and  still  more  wel- 
come game  of  p^ay. 

“Alma,’’  Judkins  cried,  taking  off  his  hat  that  the  child  might 
play  with  its  gold  band,  “ dear,  dear  Alma,  it  cuts  into  my  heart  to 
see  you  looking  so  sorrowful.” 

“ Never  mind  me,  Charlie,”  she  replied,,  with  a wan  smile.  “I 
brought  it  all  on  myself,  and  no  one  can  help  me.  Go  away,  please ; 
it  will  do  neither  of  us  any  good  to  be  seen  together.” 

“One  minute,  Alma,”  he  protested;  “let  me  speak  out  once 
more.  I love  you  so  true,  Alma,  so  true ; I can’t  give  you  up. 
Let  bygones  be  bygones,  and  do  you  try  to  care  for  me.  It’s  what 
your  poor  father  always  wished,  my  dear,  and  what  might  have 
been  if  villains — It’s  bygones,  Alma,  bygones,  and  can’t  be  helped 
anyway  now ; but  you  med  have  taken  me  in  time,  if  that  hadn’t 
come  between  us,  and  you  med  be  happy  yet.  I’ll  be  a good  hus- 
band ; I’ll  be  a father  to  that  innocent  child  that  is  fond  of  me  aL 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


199 


teady.  In  another  place  nobody  need  know  he  isn’t  mine,  and  I’ll 
never  bring  up  the  past  again  you — never.  There’s  a many  have 
begun  life  similar,  and  no  trouble  between  them.” 

“It  would  be  wronging  you,  Charlie,”  replied  Alma;  “you  are 
too  good  for  the  like  of  me.  I could  never  care  for  you  as  a wife 
ought.  I loved  too  true  once,  and  I can  never  love  any  more.  We 
are  only  young  once,  and  we  can  only  love  once,”  she  said,  express- 
ing Lilian’s  thought  in  other  words.  “ No,  Charles,  I mustn’t  take 
advantage  of  you;  you  must  go  and  forget  me.’’ 

“Look  here,  Alma!  that’s  true  about  only  loving  once;  and  do 
you  think,  if  I couldn’t  forget  you  after  what  has  come  between  us, 
I ever  could  now?  No,  my  dear.  I love  you  true,  and  ever  shall, 
and  all  I want  is  to  make  you  happy,  that  has  been  wronged.” 

Alma  burst  into  tears,  and  bid  him  not  think  too  well  of  her,  for 
that  she  had  grievously  sinned. 

“And  if  we  are  only  young  once,  you  are  still  young,”  he  con- 
tinued ; “ you  have  a deal  of  life  yet  to  live,  and  no  soul  to  look  to 
but  me.  And  he  is  as  good  as  dead,  and  that  makes  a difference. 
Take  me,  Alma,  and  you’ll  maybe  get  fonder  of  me  than  you  think. 
Consider  the  child,  too.  You’ll  never  get  work  in  Malbourne;  and 
how’ll  you  get  it  where  you  are  not  known?  ” 

Alma  was  crying  bitterly ; he  had  never  seen  her  in  so  accessible 
a mood  before. 

“ I mean  to  go  away,”  she  sobbed. 

Then  Judkins  unfolded  his  cherished  project  before  her.  “ Come 
right  away  with  me,  my  dear;  come  to  America,  where  we  can 
begin  over  again  fresh,  and  no  soul  to  cast  anything  up  against  us ; 
and  you  may  be  happy  and  honored — ay,  and  more  thought  of  than 
people  so  humble  as  us  can  ever  hope  to  be  in  the  old  country. 
I’ve  a sister  there,  out  West,  married  and  went  out  four  years  ago; 
and  they  are  rich  people  now,  with  more  land  of  their  own  than 
Sir  Lionel  ever  had,  and  all  their  own  doing.  There’s  land  to  be 
got  almost  for  the  asking,  and  nothing  wanting  but  a pair  of  stout 
hands  to  make  it  covered  with  crops  such  as  never  grow  in  poor 
old  England.  Think,  my  dear,  if  this  corn-field  here  and  half  a 
dozen  more  was  all  ours,  and  we  married,  with  a comfortable  house 
and  horses  and  garden,  and  our  own  wood  to  burn,  and  cattle  and 
poultry,  besides  the  wild  game,  to  feed  us,  and  nothing  known  agen 
us,  how  happy  we  might  be ! My  sister’s  husband,  he’s  a great  man 
out  there,  and  a precious  poor  chap  he  was  here,  to  be  sure.  Little 


200 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


Benjy  would  thrive  out  in  the  woods,  and  grow  up  to  have  land  ot 
his  own,  and  never  know  but  I was  his  father.  And  he  should 
share  equal  with  others  as  might  be  sent  us,  he  should.  I never  do 
nothing  by  halves,  Alma;  and  if  I said  that  boy  was  my  son,  my 
son  he  should  be,  you  may  depend  upon  it.  I’ve  spoken  to  Sir 
Lionel  about  it,  and  he  has  wrote  to  several  that  manage  about 
ships  and  expenses  and  all  that ; and  I’ve  a tidy  bit  of  money  put 
by,  and  my  sister,  she  writes  every  year,  and  recommends  me  to 
come  out  West;  and  there’s  no  tie  to  keep  me  here,  and  you’ve 
only  to  say  the  word,  and  we’d  have  the  banns  up  next  Sunday ; 
and  I’d  give  warning  to-morrow,  for  I’m  tired  of  service,  though 
Sir  Lionel’s  is  the  best,  and  ready  to  leave  the  land  where  I’ve  seen 
so  much  trouble,  and  we’d  be  married,  and  maybe  started  from 
Liverpool,  this  day  five  weeks.  Alma  dear,  I can’t  go  and  leave 
you ; and  you  wouldn’t  blight  my  prospects  and  keep  me  back — ay, 
and  the  child — from  making  my  fortune,  would  you  ? ” 

‘^You  are  a good  man,  Charles  Judkins,”  replied*  Alma,  dry- 
ing her  eyes;  “you  deserve  better  than  to  be  hampered  with 
such  as  me.  You  might  find  a good  girl  out  there  you  could 
marry.” 

There  was  a wistful  look  in  Alma’s  eyes,  that  emboldened  Jud- 
kins to  paint  their  future  in  still  more  glowing  terms,  and  urge  his 
suit  more  ardently  than  ever;  and  the  end  was  that,  when  they 
strolled  slowly  back  toward  Alma’s  cottage  in  the  ruddying  sunshine, 
a bunch  of  white  stephanotis  and  maidenhair  from  the  Swaynestone 
conservatories  had  strayed  from  Charlie’s  coat  to  Alma’s  black  dress, 
and  Alma’s  scarlet  poppies  drooped  in  glowing  languor  on  the 
young  fellow’s  honest  breast,  while  the  boy’s  bright  head  lay  sleep- 
ing on  his  arm. 

The  bells  had  ceased  now,  and  the  swallows  were  sweeping 
round  the  gray  belfry,  bathed  in  sunlight,  and  uttering  their  pecul- 
iar twitter.  Wider  and  wider  grew  the  circles  they  made,  now  in 
search  of  prey,  now  in  chase  of  each  other,  now  in  mere  delight  in 
airy  motion,  over  the  Rectory  roof  and  across  the  lawn,  where  a 
pleasant  group  was  gathered,  to  one  of  whom  their  sunny  breasts 
and  curving  flight  brought  sorrowful  thoughts  of  a lonely  prisoner, 
for  whom  she  had  translated  Grossi’s  exquisite  “Rondinella  Pelle- 
grina  ” long  ago. 

“ Oh  se  anch  ’io ! ma  lo  contende 
Questa  bassa  aiigusta  volta, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


201 


Dove  ’1  sole  non  risplende, 

Dove  ’1  aria  ancor  m’e  tolta, 

Donde  a te  la  mia  favella 
Giunge  appena,  oh,  rondinella ! 

was  murmuring  inwardly,  as  her  glance  followed  the  birds  of 
happy  liberty  in  their  graceful  gyrations  against  the  lucid  sky. 

Lilian  was  making  tea  at  a rustic  table  beneath  the  lindens  on 
the  lawn  ; Mrs.  Maitland  lay  on  a couch  near  her;  Marion  reclined 
in  a low-slung  hammock,  with  one  slender  foot  touching  the  turf 
as  she  swayed  to  and  fro ; Cyril  lounged  in  a low  garden  chair 
close  at  hand,  very  much  at  his  ease,  yet  ready  to  hold  her  cup  and 
plate,  and  do  her  bidding;  Mr.  Maitland,  placid  and  reveling  in  the 
thought  that  he  need  preach  no  more  for  a week,  had  another  gar- 
den lounge,  and  asked  for  his  third  cup  of  tea : Lennie  lay  on  his 
back,  staring  at  the  sky,  with  one  leg  crossed  over  the  other,  and 
pointing  heavenward;  while  Winnie’s  golden  curls  were  straying 
over  the  shoulder  of  Ingram  Swaynestone,  who  sat  near  Lilian, 
and  held  the  child  leaning  against  him  encircled  by  one  arm,  while 
he  watched  the  graceful  movements  of  the  tea-maker,  and  delighted 
in  the  slim  beauty  of  her  hands. 

Some  stone  fruit  and  a cluster  of  purple  and  one  of  white  grapes 
on  the  tea-table  made  a splendid  center  of  color  beneath  the  golden 
green  of  the  sunlit  lindens.  It  was  a sweet  and  happy  scene,  peace- 
ful, contented,  and  free,  very  different  from  the  solitary  prison-cell 
which  the  swallows  suggested  to  Lilian’s  imagination.  They  had 
been  talking  as  people  talk  over  tea-tables;  Cyril  bad  given  some 
droll  accounts  of  things  which  had  amused  him  in  his  recent  travels. 
There  had  been  happy  laughter  and  jesting,  and  now  a pleasant 
silence,  which  no  one  wished  to  break,  had  fallen  on  the  little 
party. 

Then  it  was  that  Winnie  had  one  of  her  startling  visitations  of 
thoughtfulness,  and  burst  out  as  follows,  in  her  clear,  high  treble : 
Papa,  I wonder  how  Alma  Lee  lilces  having  to  go  to 
hell?” 

“ My  dear  little  girl,  what  are  you  talking  about?  ” returned  the 
gentle  rector,  startled  out  of  his  peaceful  day-dream. 

“ Well,  you  see,  she  must  go  there,”  protested  Winnie,  with  deep 
earnestness ; ‘‘it  can’t  be  helped  now  she  has  broken  two  command- 
merits — the  third  and  the  ninth.” 


202 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


“ Hush,  dear ! ” said  Lilian ; “ you  must  not  talk  of  such  thingSa 
Besides,  let  us  hope  poor  Alma  repents.” 

“How  can  she  repent  with  poor  Henry  still  in  prison?”  de- 
manded Winnie,  fiercely  lifting  her  head  and  tossing  back  her  golden 
mane. 

“We  must,  at  least,  hope  that  poor  Alma  will  repent  before  she 
comes  to  die,  dear,”  said  Mr.  Maitland ; “ but  it  is  not  for  any  one, 
least  of  all  one  so  young  as  you,  to  judge  her.  But  you  may  pray 
for  her.” 

“Besides,”  added  Mrs.  Maitland,  “we  do  not  know  that  Alma 
has  broken  those  commandments.” 

“ Oh,  don’t  we,  though  ! ” cried  Lennie,  throwing  himself  round 
to  face  his  mother ; “ when  she  told  all  those  lies  about  Henry  and 
his  gray  suit.  Why,  Henry  changed  his  clothes  before  lunch,  be- 
cause he  got  them  dirty  walking  with  Lilian.” 

“ If  Henry  changed  his  clothes  before  luncheon,  Lennie,”  said 
Oyril,  quietly,  “ why  did  you  not  say  so  at  the  time  ? ” 

“ Lennie’s  memory  is  scarcely  to  be  trusted  after  so  great  a lapse 
of  time,”  said  his  father.  “ He  probably  thought  the  circumstance 
possible  and  desirable,  and  then  came  to  accept  it  unconsciously  as 
a fact.  Moreover,  is  it  probable  that  such  a circumstance  would 
escape  every  one’s  notice  but  Lennie’s?  ” 

“Dear  father,”  interposed  Lilian,  “can  you  recall  what  Henry 
wore  on  that  fatal  day  ? I never  could  ; there  is  so  little  variety  in 
gentlemen’s  dress.  Did  Marion  remember?  ” 

Marion  was  crying  at  the  memory  of  those  harrowing  events- 
“ I remember  perfectly,”  she  replied,  “ that  Henry  wore  a black 
coat  at  luncheon  that  day.  He  got  some  mustard  on  the  cufp,  and 
I helped  him  take  it  off.” 

“ Why  did  you  never  say  so?  ” cried  Lilian.  “ Oh,  Marion,  you 
and  Lennie  might  have  saved  him ! ” 

“You  are  very  cruel,  Lilian,  to  say  such  a thing!”  returned 
Cyril,  with  an  angry  flash  in  his  blue  eyes.  “ Henry’s  dress  at 
luncheon  would  have  proved  nothing  with  regard  to  his  subsequent 
dress,  although  it  is  plain  enough  to  us  that  he  would  not  have 
changed  again.  You  should  not  put  such  harrowing  thoughts  into 
Marion’s  mind.  I thought,  too,  that  this  painful  theme  was  not  to 
be  discussed.” 

“Well,  Alma  will  have  to  go  to  hell  all  the  same,”  returned 
Lennie,  with  conviction.  “I  don’t  care,”  he  added,  on  being  re- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


203 


buked  by  Cyril  for  bis  sweeping  judgment  and  strong  language; 
“ it’s  in  tbe  Bible  about  liars  having  their  part  in  fire  and  brim- 
stone, and  with  all  your  preaching  you  can’t  preach  it  out.” 

Cyril  pressed  his  hand  to  his  side  with  the  old  gesture,  and  a 
low  moan  escaped  him.  His  face  was  gray  with  pain,  and  the  drops 
of  anguish  stood  on  his  brow.  “ I can  not  bear  this,”  he  gasped. 

Hy  poor  boy ! ” sighed  Mr.  Maitland ; ‘‘  we  have  been  too  cruel 
in  re-opening  this  deadly  wound.  Come  with  me.  Come,  Marion, 
dry  your  eyes.  I want  to  show  you  my  bees,  real  Ligurians ; and 
yon  must  tell  me,  both  of  you,  what  you  think  of  my  hives.” 

They  strolled  away  accordingly,  leaving  the  remainder  of  the 
tea-party,  and  particularly  the  youthful  preacher,  Lennie,  aghast. 

‘‘Mrs.  Maitland,”  asked  Ingram  Swaynestone,  who  had  by  no 
means  enjoyed  this  unexpected  airing  of  the  family  skeleton,  “ when 
are  you  going  to  muzzle  this  brat?  ” 


CHAPTER  II. 

♦ 

Just  then  a lusty  baritone  voice  was  heard  in  the  lane,  which 
was  sunk  out  of  sight  between  the  Rectory  and  Northover  grounds, 
Binging  joyously— 

“ Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie, 

Where  early  fa’s  the  dew, 

And  ’tis  there  that  Annie  Laurie  , ' ^ 

Gied  me  her  promise  true — 

Gied  me  her  promise  true, 

Which  ne’er  forgot  will  be ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I’ll  lay  me  doon  and  dee.” 

“Catch  him  deeing,”  observed  Ingram,  sarcastically. 

“A  precious  rum  song  for  a Sunday,”  added  Lennie,  whose  vir- 
tuous frame  of  mind  was  rather  trying  in  its  intensity. 

“I’d  lay  me  doon  and  dee,”  sang  the  unconscious  minstrel  at  the 
very  top  of  his  compass. 

“No  you  wouldn’t,”  Lennie  shouted. 

Then  they  walked  across  the  lawn,  peeped  over  the  hedge,  and 
saw  Judkins  stepping  gaily  homeward,  with  Alma’s  scarlet  poppies 


204 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


in  his  coat.  Judkins  looked  up,  startled,  and  stopped,  blushing,  in 
the  emission  of  his  highest  note. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Swaynestone,”  he  replied,  respectfully 
saluting;  ‘‘but  indeed  I would.” 

“ Well,  I think  you  would,  Judkins,  you  foolish  fellow,”  returned 
Ingram,  laughing.  “ What  is  the  meaning  of  this  festive  cheer,  may 
1 ask?  Why  rouse  the  echoes  of  Malbourne  with  the  sounds  of  riot 
and  mirth  ? ” 

“ Sir,”  replied  J udkins,  “ I’m  engaged  to  he  married.  To-morrow 
I give  warning,  and  in  five  weeks’  time  I hope  to  sail  for  America.” 

“Let  me  recover,  Lennie,”  said  Ingram,  after  having  congratu- 
lated the  fortunate  swain,  and  sent  him  on  his  way.  “And  look 
here,  young  one,  not  a word  of  this  to  any  one.  And  please  to  re- 
member that  tragedies  are  not  discussed  over  tea-pots,  and  ladies 
are  not  supposed  to  know  anything  unpleasant,  and,  above  all,  that 
people  never  publicly  allude  to  their  relations  when  in  gaol.” 

“’Twasn’t  me;  ’twas  Win  began  it,”  growled  Lennie.  “Be- 
sides, you  are  nobody.  You  are  always  here  at  tea-time.  You  are 
going  in  for  Lilian,  it’s  my  belief.  You  do  nothing  but  stare  at  her 
like  a great  gowk.” 

“ You  are  a promising  young  party,  upon  my  word,”  observed 
Ingram,  picking  him  up  by  the  jacket  collar.  “ Marvyn  should  whop 
you  more.” 

So  saying,  he  carried  the  struggling  boy  back  to  the  tea-drinkers 
and  deposited  him  in  the  fork  of  a tree,  where  he  bid  him  remain, 
under  pain  of  chastisement,  while  he  and  Winnie  aimed  handker- 
chiefs and  other  missiles  at  him,  unmindful  for  a moment  of  Alma 
Lee’s  afiairs. 

Lilian  was  trying  to  get  Mark  Antony  to  accept  a saucer  of 
cream,  on  which  the  haughty  favorite  perpetually  turned  his  back, 
or  rather  tail,  with  cool  disdain;  while  Snip  and  Snap  watched  it 
with  eager  eyes,  knowing  that  Mark’s  final  rejection  of  the  dainty 
would  consign  it  to  them. 

“ There  are  moments,”  said  Ingram,  who  watched  the  scene 
with  a sort  of  impatient  interest,  “ when  a man  might  envy  a 
cat.” 

Lilian  assured  him  that  there  was  plenty  of  cream  in  the  dairy, 
if  he  would  like  some;  and  Mr.  Maitland  and  Marion  returned — the 
latter  still  looking  troubled — when  it  became  painfully  apparent  to 
Mr.  Swaynestone  that  he  had  already  lingered  longer  in  the  fam- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


205 


ily  circle  than  he  should  have  done,  and  he  regretfully  took  his 
leave. 

Lilian  looked  after  him  with  a half-pained  gaze  as  he  went  to 
the  gate,  accompanied  by  her  father;  then  she  returned  to  Marion. 
“ Where' is  Cyril?  ” she  asked. 

“It  is  his  hour  for  private  devotion,”  she  replied,  speaking  in  a 
voice  intended  only  for  Mrs.  Maitland  and  Lilian,  the  children  hav- 
ing set  off  down  the  drive  to  bid  their  playfellow  another  good-by» 
“I  sometimes  wish,”  she  added,  with  a sigh,  “ that  Cyril  were  not 
quite  so  devout.” 

“ Dear  child,  that  is  a bad  wish,”  rebuked  Mrs.  Maitland. 

“ He  will  he  upset  for  at  least  a day,”  continued  Marion,  ab- 
stractedly, “ and  will  see  none  of  ns.  He  is  still  so  sensitive ; the 
least  reference  to  my  poor  brother  invariably  has  this  effect.  I was 
the  last  transgressor,”  continued  Marion,  with  a sorrowful  smile. 
“ It  was  at  Chillon.  When  we  were  in  that  dreadful  crypt  by  Bon- 
nivard’s  pillar,  somebody  began  to  quote  Byron’s  ‘ Prisoner  ’ — 
some  tiresome  tourist.  I could  not  help  it,  Lilian,  hut  the  thought 
of  being  shut  up  all  those  years  ; the  thought  that  Henry,  who  read 
those  very  lines  so  unthinkingly  on  that  fatal  day,  as  you  told  me, 
was  actually  suffering — . Oh,  dear ! ” added  Marion,  checking  a 
sob.  “ I turned  and  asked  Cyril  to  take  me  away  from  that  dread- 
ful place.  Heaven  knows  what  I said.  Something  about  my  un- 
fortunate brother,  I suppose.  Well,  Cyril  fainted.  He  told  me 
then  that  I must  never  speak  of  him.” 

“ He  will  grow  less  sensitive  as  his  health  improves  and  his  hap- 
piness becomes  more  habitual,”  Mrs.  Maitland  said,  trying  to  soothe 
the  agitated  girl. 

“It  would  he  more  manly  in  Cyril,  and  far  better  for  him,  if  he 
would  but  accept  the  fact,  and  make  up  his  mind  to  meet  it  brave- 
ly,” said  Lilian.  “He  can  not  go  on  in  this  way;  his  long  illness 
has  spoiled  him.  I must  speak  to  him — ” 

“O  Ldian ! ” interposed  Marion,  “pray  don’t  speak  to  him! 
He  can’t  bear  it,  indeed.  You  will  only  make  matters  far  worse, 
indeed — indeed!  You  think  you  understand  Cyril,  but  you  are 
mistaken.  You  are  not  his  wife.  I have  been  his  wife  only  two 
months,  but  I know  more  about  him  than  I ever  knew  of  any  hu- 
man being  before.” 

And  the  knowledge  had  taken  the  careless  gayety  from  Marion’s 
manner,  and  the  youthful  ring  from  her  laughter.  It  was  not  with- 


206 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


out  reason  that  she  vaunted  her  fresh  matronly  dignity,  and  said, 
with  half-sad  playfulness,  I am  older  than  you  now,  Lilian — years, 
years  older.” 

“ We  must  bear  with  dear  Cyril,”  said  Mr.  Maitland,  who  had 
joined  them.  Suffering  of  unusual  severity  has  been  laid  upon 
him,  his  whole  life  has  received  a shock,  and  we  must  remember 
that  we  saved  his  reason  only  as  by  a miracle.  Even  now  his  mind 
is  not  firmly  balanced.  Marion  must  heal  that  mind  as  only  she 
can.  But  Cyril  will  bear  the  scars  of  this  furnace  all  his  life,  poor 
lad.  We  must  not  marvel  that  he  is  changed.” 

Every  one  recognized  the  fierceness  of  the  furnace  through 
which  Cyril  had  passed,  leaving  his  youth  behind,  and  yet  it  never 
struck  people  that  the  blow  was  naturally  niore  severe  to  Lilian. 
Even  Mr.  Maitland,  with  the  memory  of  Lilian’s  passionate  outburst 
when  she  confided  the  story  of  Everard’s  love  to  him,  did  not  re- 
flect that  it  makes  a greater  shipwreck  of  life  to  lose  a lover  than  a 
friend.  The  tragedy  of  Cyril’s  youth  threw  an  additional  glamour 
over  him  for  the  remainder  of  his  life ; his  deep  friendship,  and  the 
sensitiveness  which  made  him  grieve  to  the  point  of  losing  his 
reason  and  almost  his  life  over  a brother’s  shame,  invested  him 
with  a romantic  interest  which  never  faded.  It  was  whispered 
about  in  after  years,  with  various  modifications  and  additions,  but 
always  to  Cyril’s  credit,  long  after  the  trial  and  the  catastrophe  to 
the  Everards  was  forgotten. 

The  illness  with  which  Cyril  had  been  stricken  on  hearing  Ever- 
ard’s terrible  doom,  left  its  marks  on  him  for  life.  E’o  one  could 
say  how  he  was  changed,  but  it  was  certain  that  he  was  never  the 
same  man  again.  During  the  slow  process  of  recovery,  he  was  for 
months  like  a child  in  intellect,  living  only  for  trifles,  laughing  at  a 
mere  nothing,  speaking  only  as  a child  speaks,  reading  nothing  but 
the  lightest  literature,  and  preferring  that  specially  consecrated  to 
boys’  amusement,  and,  above  all,  strictly  forbidden  to  approach  any 
painful  topic  in  thought  or  speech. 

The  day  that  saw  him  out  of  danger  saw  Lilian  on  a bed  of  sick- 
ness, from  which  she  arose  almost  as  weak  as  Cyril.  The  twins 
made  their  convalescence  together,  Lilian  outstripping  her  brother 
in  their  progress  toward  health,  and  their  physical  weakness — espe- 
cially Cyril’s,  which  was  excessive — made  it  easy  for  them  to  avoid 
mental  exertion.  They  were  told  to  lead  an  animal  life,  and  they 
became  boy  and  girl  at  holiday  once  more. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


207 


For  months  neither  of  them  breathed  Henry’s  name,  or  alluded 
to  the  events  which  had  ended  so  tragically  for  him.  Gradually 
Cyril’s  reason,  the  delicate  chords  of  which  had  been  so  cruelly 
strained,  resumed  its  natural  tone,  and  Lilian,  who  watched  him 
like  a mother,  supplied  his  intellect  from  day  to  day  with  stronger 
food.  First  she  had  occupied  his  vacant  moments  with  manual  em- 
ployments— wood-carving,  painting,  and  even  needlework,  which 
he  executed  in  the  early  days,  while  she  read  to  him.  Then  she 
advanced  him  to  gardening  and  the  tending  of  pet  animals,  and 
singing  with  her ; thence  to  an  interest  in  public  affairs.  As  he 
progressed,  and  began  to  talk  calmly  and  seriously,  she  extended 
his  reading,  took  him  back  to  old  favorite  classic  authors,  and  got 
him  to  translate  these  and  modern  poets  into  English  verse,  for 
which  he  had  a graceful  knack ; and  one  day,  when  he  brought  her 
a fresh  copy  of  original  verses,  she  felt  that  her  patient  was  healed, 
and  determined  to  send  him  away  from  her. 

‘•You  have  saved  his  intellect,”  his  physician  said,  when  she 
showed  him  the  verses,  “ and  I must  confess  that  I had  very  little 
hope  of  such  a consummation.  No  one  with  a less  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  your  brother’s  character  could  have  done  what  you  have 
done.  You  have  in  so  doing  saved  a remarkably  fine,  if  delicate, 
mental  organization.” 

Then  Cyril  traveled  for  some  months  in  Greece,  Egypt,  and 
Syria — countries  particularly  interesting  to  one  of  his  temperament 
and  education.  He  reveled  in  the  poetic  and  historic  associations 
of  the  ancient  homes  of  letters  and  arts,  and  poured  out  his  soul  in 
devotional  ecstasy  on  the  hallowed  soil  of  Jerusalem  and  Nazareth. 
He  also  wrote  a poem,  called  “The  Knight  of  Expiation,”  in  blank 
verse. 

The  “knight,”  it  appeared,  was  visited  by  one  of  those  unlucky 
excesses  of  virtue  which  the  vulgar  call  crimes,  and  for  which  pub- 
lic opinion  usually  exacts  the  reparation  of  hanging  in  these  prosaic 
days.  The  nature  of  this  virtuous  excess  was  discreetly  left  to  the 
reader’s  imagination,  d la  Byron^  and  was  thus  as  horrible  as  the 
most  fastidious  taste  could  desire.  (Lennie  inclined  to  the  oyfinion 
that  the  knight  had  boiled  his  grandmother,  and  played  dice  with 
her  bones,  besides  practicing  the  black  art.) 

The  furies  of  conscience  having  seized  upon  this  unlucky  victim 
of  social  prejudices,  as  M.  Hugo  et  Cie  call  criminals,  he  put  on  a 
hair  shirt,  and  Avent  to  the  Holy  Land  to  do  penance  at  its  shrines, 
14 


SOS 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


and  returned  to  his  native  shores  to  he  canonized.  This  plot  afford- 
ed fine  scope  for  Cyril’s  descriptive  and  topographical  powers,  and 
admitted  of  a beautiful  account  of  the  knight’s  feelings  on  first  see- 
ing Jerusalem,  which- would  have  been  more  generally  admired  if  it 
had  not  reminded  people  so  strongly  of  a similar  passage  in  Tasso. 
The  character  of  the  kuight  had  unfortunately  been  anticipated  by 
Byron  in  Childe  Harold.  Nevertheless,  the  pretty  volume,  called 
‘‘The  Knight’s  Expiation,  and  other  Poems,”  was  greatly  admired, 
if  not  purchased. 

Marion  had  seen  Cyril  frequently  during  his  convalescence,  and 
had  only  parted  with  him  at  the  beginning  of  his  tour ; and,  in  the 
second  June  after  his  illness,  her  father  took  her  to  Paris,  where 
Cyril  met  her,  and  was  quietly  married  to  her.  The  young  couple 
passed  a brief  paradise  in  Switzerland,  and  then  went  home  to  Mal- 
bourne,  whence,  after  a few  days’  sojourn,  they  were  to  go  to  Cy- 
ril’s fresh  curacy  in  the  west  of  London.  The  twins  had,  however, 
been  parted  since  the  time  when  Lilian  finished  her  pious  task  of 
rescuing  her  brother’s  intellect  from  the  shipwreck  which  threat- 
ened it. 

They  had  met  again  but  four  and  twenty  hours  since,  yet  Lilian 
knew  their  old  close  relationship  was  at  an  end  for  ever.  An  in- 
surmountable barrier  had  risen  up  between  them.  This,  she  told 
herself,  was  but  in  the  natural  course  of  things ; the  peculiar  bond 
of  twinship,  strengthened  as  it  had  accidentally  been  by  the  circum- 
stances of  Cyril’s  terrible  illness,  could  not  be  expected  to  outlive 
early  youth.  Her  brother  had  now  found  other  ties ; he  was  tasting 
the  fullness  of  life.  The  old  childish  associations  must  fade  in  the 
full  stress  of  manhood,  and  they  must  now  be  only  as  brothers  and 
sisters  commonly  are.  It  was  only  natural,  and  yet  it  grieved  Lilian 
with  an  unspeakable  grief.  In  the  sore  trouble  which  had  fallen  on 
her,  she  needed  her  brother’s  close  friendship  as  she  never  had  done 
before. 

As  Marion  had  predicted,  they  saw  nothing  more  of  Cyril  that 
night,  but  the  next  day  he  appeared  among  them  with  a cloudless 
brow,  and  set  them  all  laughing  with  his  droll  anecdotes  and  obser- 
vations, the  drollery  of  which  was  so  greatly  enhanced  by  his  grave 
face  and  almost  pathetic  voice.  He  never  laughed,  and  only  rarely 
smiled,  and,  although  his  very  smile  was  sad,  it  was  as  sweet  as 
only  rare  smiles  are.  One  of  those  smiles  was  sufficient  to  win  a 
friend  for  life,  as  he  well  knew.  There  had  been  a time  when  he 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


209 


was  wont  to  laugh  as  happily  and  heartily  as  only  young  manhood 
can. 

There  was  a great  croquet-tournament  that  afternoon  at  Mr.  Mar- 
vyn’s,  and  there  the  Maitlands,  the  younger  Garretts  and  Swayne- 
stones  assembled,  to  measure  their  powers  one  against  the  other 
with  all  the  serious  ardor  which  the  pursuit  of  croquet  in  the 
palmy  days  of  its  youth  exacted. 

Will  no  bard  arise  to  pour  forth  lyric  song  in  honor  of  that  noble 
but  now  extinct  pastime?  Can  no  historian  be  found  to  chronicle 
the  decline  and  fall  of  croquet?  It  descended,  like  other  gifts  of 
Heaven,  unexpectedly  from  some  far  celestial  eminence  and  took 
captive  the  hearts  of  the  sons,  and  still  more  of  the  daughters,  of 
men,  at  one  stroke.  In  those  who  were  young  at  that  golden  pe- 
riod, the  peculiar  sharp  yet  dull  click  of  the  balls  still  awakes  a 
thrilling  combination  of  delicious  and  romantic  feelings,  as  it  is 
evoked  by  the  hand  of  some  careless  child,  who  has  routed  out  the 
dusty  mallets  and  balls  from  some  forgotten  corner,  and  imagines 
himself  a new  Columbus  in  consequence. 

Mr.  Marvyn,  who,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  curate  of  Mal- 
bourne  and  tutor  to  the  young  Maitlands  in  succession,  had  been 
very  severely  bitten  by  the  croquet  mania.  He  had  ruthlessly  lev- 
eled his  wife’s  flower-beds  to  make  a fitting  ground  for  the  noble 
pastime,  and  this  he  mowed  and  rolled  and  watered  himself,  and 
upon  this  he  permitted  no  unlicensed  foot  to  stray. 

When  the  players  arrived,  they  found  every  hoop  and  stick  ex- 
actly placed,  after  careful  and  accurate  measurement,  on  a lawn 
newly  shaven  and  tested  by  a spirit-level,  and  a host  and  hostess 
too  much  burdened  with  the  responsibility  of  reading  the  new  club 
rules  to  go  through  the  conventional  forms  of  welcome. 

An  interlude  of  tea  was  grudgingly  acquiesced  in ; and  Mr.  Mar- 
vyn, laying  aside  his  own  favorite  mallet  with  a deep  sigh,  and  care- 
fully noting  the  position  of  each  player  in  his  pocket-book,  followed 
his  guests  to  some  tables  in  the  shade  of  two  fine  elms,  and,  taking 
a chair  by  Mrs.  Cyril  Maitland,  began  to  scold  her  seriously  for  the 
blunders  she  had  made,  and  laughed  at,  which  was  worse,  while 
playing  on  his  side.  But  there  were  some  people,  and  among  them 
Ingram  Swaynestone,  who  took  his  tea  on  the  grass  at  Lilian’s  feet, 
who  thought  the  tea  interlude  by  no  means  the  least  agreeable  part 
of  the  tournament,  and  responded  with  little  alacrity  to  Mr.  Mar- 
vyn’s  summons  to  continue  the  combat. 


210 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND. 


Night  fell  all  too  soon  upon  the  eager  contest,  and  the  light  of 
the  mellow  August  moon  was  supplemented  by  that  of  two  carriage- 
lamps,  which  were  carried  from  hoop  to  hoop,  to  the  great  distrac- 
tion of  nervous  people ; while  the  less  ardent  players,  resigning  their 
halls  to  others,  joined  the  non-combatants  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
yielded  themselves  to  the  frivolity  of  conversation  and  music. 

Poets  are  made  of  precious  queer  stuff,”  Ingram  Swaynestone 
observed  to  Lilian,  as  they  stood  on  the  lawn,  waiting  their  turn  to 
play,  and  listened  to  a song  which  Miss  Swaynestone  was  singingo 
“Now,  what  could  have  put  that  notion  into  Cyril’s  head?  I’m 
sure  he  never  left  off  loving  anybody.” 

The  song  which  Cyril  had  written,  and  which  had  been  daintily- 
set  by  an  Austrian  student  he  met  in  his  travels,  was  as  follows : 

“ When  I began  to  love  you, 

’Twas  like  the  beginning  of  June, 

Like  the  dewy  birth  of  the  morning 
Or  the  swell  of  the  first  lark’s  tune. 

“ All  grew  so  bright,  so  gracious. 

So  full  of  mystery  sweet. 

Such  a deep  and  dear  enchantment 
Had  bound  me,  hands  and  feet. 

“ But  when  I finished  to  love  you, 

’Twas  like  the  closing  of  night. 

When  November’s  gloaming  is  sheeted 
In  rain-clouds  falling  light. 

“ Ah  ! when  I finished  to  love  you, 

I finished  with  all  things  bright. 

And  I saw  a dark  grave  yawning 
To  hide  my  heart  in  its  night.” 

Lilian  knew  that  Cyril  had  written  it  at  the  time  of  his  estrange- 
ment from  Marion,  who  was  listening  to  it  now  with  great  enjoy- 
ment, unconscious  that  she  was  the  heroine  of  it ; but  she  only  said 
that  poets  were  supposed  to  feel  all  the  emotions  of  which  the 
human  breast  is  capable,  and  Ingram  was  about  to  make  some  re- 
joinder, when  the  reiterated  cry  of  “ Blue  to  play ! ” at  last  aroused 
his  attention,  and  he  reluctantly  obeyed  the  summons. 

But  when  the  game  was  at  last  ended,  and  they  found  themselves 
going  home  in  the  moonlight  across  the  few  fields,  and  through  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


211 


dewy  lane  whicli  lay  between  the  curate’s  dwelling  and  the  rector’s, 
Ingram  contrived  that  Lilian  should  linger  behind  with  him,  so  that 
there  was  no  chance  of  interruption.  The  words  of  Cyril’s  song 
echoed  in  his  ears : 

“ Such  a deep  and  dear  enchantment 
Had  bound  me,  hands  and  feet.” 

“ I can  not  break  the  spell,  Lilian,”  he  said,  ‘‘  and  I do  not  think 
it  well  to  try  any  more.  My  father  sees  it  at  last,  and,  though  at 
one  time  he  wished  me  to  look  for  rank  and  fortune,  he  now  thinks 
I can  not  do  better  than  follow  my  heart.” 

‘‘Dear  Ingram,”  replied  Lilian,  pausing  at  a gate,  over  which 
they  saw  the  village  sleeping  in  the  moonlight,  “I  would  have 
spared  you  this.  I thought  I had  been  explicit  enough.” 

“You  were  explicit  enough;  I quite  understood  that  I was  re- 
fuse(J.  But,  dearest  Lilian,  you  can  not  imagine  how  earnestly  and 
truly  I love  you,”  he  continued,  his  face  flushing  beneath  its  brown 
with  deep  and  serious  feeling.  “ I know  well  how  unworthy  I am 
of  you.  I have  not  been  a good  man ; I was  not  like  Cyril.  I did 
as  others  do.  But,  dearest  Lilian,  ever  since  the  happy  day,  long 
ago  now,  when  I found  that  I loved  you,  ‘ when  I began  to  love 
you,’  as  Cyril’s  song  says,  it  was  indeed  like  the  beginning  of  June 
— everything  was  new.  I woke  up  to  loathe  all  those  things  in  my 
life  that  were  unworthy  of  you ; I set  to  work  to  sweep  them  all 
away,  and  do  better.  I am  not  good  for  much  even  now,  I know 
well ; but  if  there  is  any  good  in  me  at  all,  if  I am  not  a mere  un- 
scrupulous man  of  pleasure,  if  I have  any  higher  aspirations,  if  I try 
to  do  my  duty  in  my  small  way,  it  is  all  owing  to  you.” 

“ i^o,  Ingram,”  returned  Lilian,  looking  into  the  honest,  manly 
face,  which  was  alight  with  unwonted  fervor ; “ you  are  wrong,  be- 
lieve me.  It  is  not  due  to  me,  but  to  your  own  good  and  true  na- 
ture, which  only  needed  the  touch  of  love — which  you  must  give 
one  day,  not  to  me,  but  to  some  better,  more  suitable  woman — to 
show  you  the  real  meaning  of  life.  Believe  me,  Ingram,  men  are 
not  so  dependent  on  women.  Do  not  give  in  to  the  conventional 
fiction  of  making  your  better  self  depend  on  anything  so  uncertain 
as  the  will  and  liking  of  one  weaker  than  yourself.  The  moral 
nature  of  men  is  stronger  than  that  of  women.  We  all  want  some- 
thing to  lean  upon.  Do  not  make  pillars  of  us.  Do  you  think  any 
woman  could  love  one  she  believed  her  inferior?  ” 


212 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


“ I hope  and  trust  so,”  said  Ingram,  with  a little  smile.  ‘‘With- 
out that  there  would  be  little  chance  of  happiness  for  me  and  many 
another  poor  fellow.  Dear  Lilian,  try  to  love  me.  How  can  I live 
without  you?” 

'‘I  thought  we  were  to  be  friends,”  replied  Lilian,  with  a sigh 
and  a regretful  intonation  of  her  beautiful  voice. 

It  was  like  the  most  exquisite  music  to  Ingram’s  ear  ; it  seemed 
to  take  his  soul  captive  and  surround  him  with  the  purest  delight. 
Merely  to  hear  her  discoursing  on  every-day  themes  to  others  filled 
him  with  a sense  of  delicious  perfection  which  no  cafes  could  dis- 
tract. 

“We  must  be  something  more  than  friends,”  he  said,  “ when  the 
very  sound  of  your  voice  stirs  every  fiber  within  me.” 

“ We  can  never  be  more  than  friends;  it  is  not  in  my  power,” 
she  replied  quickly  and  with  agitation. 

Ingram  looked  at  her  pale,  pure  face  with  a startled  glance,  and 
saw  that  tears  were  fast  gathering  in  her  eyes.  Was  there  some 
hidden  trouble  in  her  serene  and  lovely  life  ? He  could  not  think 
it.  She  had  outlived  the  pain  and  annoyance  of  her  old  playmate’s 
ruin  ; she  had  received  her  brother  back  from  the  very  jaws  of 
death  ; all  was  fair  and  pleasant  around  her.  Her  step  was  light  as 
only  that  of  health  and  young  happiness  can  be ; her  laughter  had 
the  most  joyous  ring  of  any  he  ever  heard;  she  was  always  bright 
and  full  of  pleasant  thoughts  and  airy  suggestions.  No;  it  was  not 
possible  that  sorrow  could  have  a home  in  her  heart.  He  looked 
silently  and  searchingly  at  the  figure  by  his  side. 

She  was  of  more  ethereal  mold  than  she  had  been  in  earlier 
days ; and  her  features,  losing  the  soft,  joyous  curves  of  youth,  had 
fined  into  that  perfect  purity  of  outline  which  in  her  brother  seemed 
austerity,  but  in  her  suggested  spirit-like  sweetness.  The  twins’ 
faces  had  been  cast  in  the  very  same  mold,  only  the  lips  were 
fuller  and  firmer  in  the  sister,  and  she  lacked  the  squareness  visible 
in  her  brother’s  jaw.  For  the  first  time,  Ingram  asked  himself  the 
question  people  never  asked  when  under  the  spell  of  Lilian’s  glances 
— Had  she  beauty?  And  his  answer  was  in  the  affirmative. 

“Dear  Lilian,”  he  said,  “it  is  in  your  power  to  try  to  love 
me.” 

Lilian  shook  her  head.  “Do  you  remember  the  day  of  Ben 
Lee’s  death?  ” she  asked.  “Henry  Everard  and  I were  in  Temple 
Copse  at  midday  when  Long’s  wagon  was  passing.  It  was  then  ” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


213 


Lilian  faltered,  and  her  lip  trembled  a little — “ that  we  became  en- 
gaged.” 

Ingram  was  not  wholly  unprepared  for  this,  and  said  so,  gazing 
quietly  before  him,  without  returning  the  gaze  he  knew  she  had 
fixed  on  him.  ‘‘But  that  is  long  ago,”  he  added,  “and  you  have 
your  life  to  live.  Because  you  made  one  mistake,  because  one  man 
proved  unworthy,  will  you  spoil  another’s  happiness?” 

“ Unworthy ! ” cried  Lilian,  in  a voice  that  startled  him.  “ Henry 
Everard  was  never  unworthy  ; that  is  no  word  to  apply  to  him.  A 
more  spotless  man  never  breathed.” 

“ Oh,  Lilian,”  returned  Ingram,  “ you  must  indeed  have  loved 
him  if  you  believed  him  innocent  after  the  evidence  which  con- 
demned him,” 

“I  did  indeed  love  him,”  said  Lilian,  with  quiet  fervor. 

He  was  silent  for  a time,  half  stunned  by  the  calm  force  of 
Lilian’s  words ; then  at  last  he  spoke. 

‘‘This  old  pain  must  be  healed,”  he  said  falteringly ; “the  dead 
past  must  bury  its  dead.” 

“The  past  is  alive  and  young,”  replied  Lilian. 

“Dearest  Lilian,  this  must  not  be,”  said  Ingram,  with  resolution. 
“ It  is  wrong  and  rnorbid  to  go  on  brooding  over  an  old  sorrow,  and 
refusing  comfort.  Innocent  or  not,  he  is  dead  to  you  ; your  love 
can  profit  him  no  more  than  if  he  were  actually  in  the  grave — ” 

“ You  are  mistaken,”  interrupted  Lilian ; “ we  correspond.  Be- 
sides, the  imprisonment  is  not  for  life.” 

“Lilian,  this  is  too  dreadful.  A convicted  felon  with  a twenty 
years’  sentence ! Supposing  even  the  best,  and  he  came  out  at  the 
end  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  years ; you  are  six  and  twenty  now ; youth 
would  be  gone — ” 

“But  not  love,  Ingram.  Do  you  know  what  love  is?  It  is 
stronger  than  time,  stronger  than  prisons,  stronger  than  sorrow; 
stronger  than  shame ; it  is  stronger,  even,  than  death.  Many  waters 
can  not  quench  it,  even  waters  of  salt  tears ; and  no  floods  of  afflic- 
tion can  drown  it.  Love  is  immortal,  and  knows  nothing  of  age  or 
death.” 

Ingram  gazed  awe-stricken  upon  the  inspired  face,  etherealized 
by  the  dreamy  moonlight  and  its  own  holy  passion,  and  listened  to 
the  beautiful  voice  as  people  listen  to  fine  strains  of  organ-music. 

“ Lilian,”  he  said  at  last,  “this  can  not  be.  You  must  not  throw 
away  your  life  like  this.  Time  will  soften  these  feelings.” 


214 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


Never,”  she  returned  firmly.  “Ingram,  you  must  waste 
more  time  on  me.  You  are  my  very  dear  friend,  and  I have  told 
you  the  secret  of  my  heart,  and  you  see  now  how  impossible  any 
such  relations  are  to  me.  Let  your  past  bury  its  dead,  and  fix  your 
heart’s  good  afi’ections  elsewhere.  Come,  let  us  go.” 

But  he  would  not  go  on ; he  stopped,  and,  taking  her  hand, 
poured  out  a torrent  of  remonstrance  and  entreaty. 

“Look,  Ingram,”  she  said  at  last,  “look  northward.  If  our 
sight  could  reach  so  far,  we  should  see  a river,  a dark  river  crowd- 
ed with  shipping,  and  beyond  the  river  stands  a black  round  mass 
of  buildings.  In  that  dark  mass  there  is  a cell,  in  which,  perhaps, 
this  ver,y  moon  is  shining  now  through  the  barred  window.  In 
that  cell  is  a man,  a gentleman,  a man  of  unusual  gifts  and  culture. 
He  is  young,  and  everything  has  been  taken  from  him — liberty,  fort- 
une, hope,  ambition,  honor,  friends;  but  not  love,”  she  added,  her 
features  transfigured  as  she  spoke;  “love  and  innocence  are  still 
his.  Ingram,  I am  all  that  man  has  on  this  earth,  and  I love  him. 
Do  you  think  any  happiness  life  can  offer  would  make  me  desert 
him?” 

“ He  would  never  wish  you  to  be  bound  to  him,  if  he  really 
cared  for  you.” 

“He  does  not  wish  it.  But  think  of  that  solitary  prisoner,  and 
remember  he  is  the  only  man  I ever  loved  or  could  love.  That  is 
my  last  word.” 

They  went  silently  on  their  way  with  full  hearts,  Lilian’s  tearful 
glances  always  turned  northward,  and  those  of  her  companion  bent 
downward. 

At  that  moment,  within  the  gloomy  building  beyond  the  dark 
and  crowded  river,  a strongly  built  man,  with  a haggard  face  and 
dark  eyes  full  of  intellect,  was  lying  on  a hard  couch  in  his  solitary 
cell,  on  the  bare  white  wall  of  which  fell  a square  patch  of  bright 
moonlight,  crossed  by  the  shadow  of  iron  bars.  He  was  glad  that 
the  window  looked  southward,  and  turned  to  it  even  in  his  sleep. 

But  he  was  awake  now,  and  thinking  how  the  mellow  glory 
was  falling  on  the  Malbourne  corn-fields  and  the  beloved  roof  which 
sheltered  Lilian,  and  wondering  if,  perhaps,  the  same  luster  which 
gilded  his  dim  and  dreary  cell  made  a halo  for  the  adored  face. 


( THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


215 


CHAPTER  III. 

Some  few  years  since,  the  fiat  went  forth  for  the  old  familiar 
walls  and  heavy  gates  of  Portsmouth  town  to  be  leveled  to  the 
ground,  that  the  space  which  these  now  useless  relics  of  the  past 
occupied  might  be  covered  with  buildings  connected  with  the  de- 
fenses and  adapted  to  the  requirements  of  the  present.  Down  went 
mony  a fine  old  elm  beneath  axe  and  rope,  and  bit  by  bit  the  ram- 
parts disappeared,  and  the  ditches  were  filled  by  the  busy  hands  of 
sunburnt  men,  armed  with  barrow,  pick-axe,  and  spade. 

One  summer  morning,  while  these  works  were  in  progress,  the 
sun  shone  brightly  in  the  clear  blue  sky,  and  over  the  quiet  sea  and 
still  quieter  harbor ; on  the  troop- ships  and  mail-clad  men-of-war,  the 
busy  steamers  and  countless  boats  of  every  description,  which  filled 
these  peaceful  waters;  on  the  gay  garrison  town,  and  on  the  beach, 
crowded  with  bathers.  Now  and  again  a bugle  rang  out,  a gun  was 
fired,  snatches  of  military  music  were  heard;  on  the  breezy  com- 
mon the  strong  horses  and  heavy  guns  of  mounted  artillery  were 
careering  through  thick  dust-clouds,  whence  the  sparkle  of  arms 
and  accouterments  gleamed  more  effectively  in  the  brilliant  sunlight. 
Portsmouth  streets  were  full  of  life,  and  the  melodious  chimes  of 
the  parish  church  floated  sweetly  over  street,  harbor,  and  bastion 
at  every  quarter. 

Not  very  far  from  the  Queen’s  Bastion  a party  of  men  were  at 
work  upon  the  partly  leveled  fortifications.  They  toiled  on  in  the 
hot  sunshine  in  a listless,  unwilling  manner,  each  man  apparently 
trying  to  accomplish  as  little  as  possible.  They  were  an  ugly  set, 
for  the  most  part,  with  low  brows,  heavy  jaws,  and  brutal  looks, 
and  their  close-cropped  hair,  small  black  oilskin  caps,  dingy  yellow 
clothes,  and  clumsy  boots  by  no  means  softened  their  repulsive  ap- 
pearance. Many  of  them  looked  at  the  gay  carriages  and  brightly 
clad  women  and  children  passing  and  repassing,  while  some  bent 
their  scowling  brows  stolidly  over  their  spades.  But  the  gazers  did 
not  look  up  with  a direct  glance ; they  looked  out  of  the  corners 
of  their  eyes,  round  their  noses,  with  all  kinds  of  crooked  and  tort- 
uous glances,  like  the  traitors  Dante  saw  in  his  “ Inferno.”  Few  of 
these  men  could  give  a level  glancp  or  a candid  answer ; still  fewer 
could  think  a clear  and  honest  thought. 

At  intervals,  watching  them,  and  occasionally  giving  a sharp, 


216 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


stern  order,  stood  armed  men,  stalwart  and  blue-clad,  with  faces 
like  rocks.  Their  guns  were  loaded  with  ball,  and  their  side-arms, 
gleaming  in  the  sun,  looked  terribly  practical.  As  the  convicts 
pursued  their  forced,  unwelcome  toil,  with  the  sweat  beading  their 
v/eather-stained  brows,  a slow,  melancholy,  long-drawn  music  pealed 
from  the  distance,  and  grew  more  and  more  distinct,  while  the 
passengers  thickened,  and  a slowly  moving  mass  of  scarlet,  inter- 
spersed with  flashes  of  steel  and  gold,  came  into  sight.  The  wail  of 
the  trumpets  rose  into  notes  of  shriller  anguish,  while  the  heavy 
roll  of  the  muffled  drums  beneath  was  like  the  despairing  voice  of 
some  irrevocable  doom,  and  smote  heavily  upon  the  heart  of  one  of 
the  convicts,  who  recognized  in  the  wailing  music,  the  reversed 
arms,  and  slow  rhythm,  of  the  soldier’s  even  march,  the  solemn  pa- 
geant of  a military  funeral. 

As  the  procession  drew  nearer,  the  road  became  more  choked 
with  passengers  and  gazers,  and  people  climbed  on  the  unfenced 
works,  some  to  see  the  pageant  better,  others  to  be  out  of  the  way 
till  the  crowd  was  past.  They  gradually  pressed  closer  and  closer 
on  the  convicts,  whose  dangerous  proximity  they  did  not  heed, 
until  the  warders,  finding  it  impossible  to  keep  them  away,  formed 
the  convicts  in  line  as  far  away  as  possible,  and  bid  them  stand  at 
attention  while  the  funeral  glided  by  in  its  slow  majesty. 

The  convict  in  whose  breast  the  sorrowful  music  had  found 
such  a responsive  echo  was  on  the  outside  of  the  two-deep  line 
nearest  the  road,  and  was  within  a few  paces  of  two  ladies  who  had 
drawn  aside  to  avoid  the  crowd.  At  first  sight  there  was  nothing 
to  distinguish  'No.  62  from  his  repulsive  comrades,  but  a closer  gaze 
revealed  an  intellectual  face,  gaunt  and  lined  with  suffering ; dark 
hazel  eyes,  wfith  a straight,  thoughtful  glance ; and  a genial  mouth, 
which  had  lost  its  old  habit  of  smiling.  He  was  of  slighter  build 
than  most  of  the  convicts,  but  strong  and  well-set.  His  name, 
which  he  had  not  heard  for  a weary  time,  and  which  his  nearest 
and  dearest  friends  had  long  ceased  to  pronounce,  was  Henry  Ever- 
ard. 

Many  an  old  memory  stirred  within  him,  as  he  heard  the  muffled 
roll  of  the  drums  and  looked  upon  the  scarlet  mass  of  silent  men 
moving  by ; for  many  of  the  soldiers  wore  the  number  of  his 
brother’s  regiment  on  their  uniforms,  and  he  thought  of  the  sunny- 
hearted  Leslie,  whom  he  had  so  admired  and  loved,  and  with 
’vhom,  when  quite  a lad,  he  had  spent  so  many  pleasant  holiday's, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


217 


all  tuned  to  the  bright  music  of  trumpet  and  drum,  and  the  quick 
rattle  of  arms  and  rhythmic  tread  of  armed  men. 

He  remembered  his  pride  the  first  time  he  was  admitted  as  a 
grown  man  to  the  mess-table,  and  his  brotlier’s  gallant  presence 
and  liglit- hearted  merriment,  and  the  respect  paid  him  by  the  raw 
lads  who  had  just  joined.  Of  all  his  brothers,  Leslie  was  nearest 
him  in  age,  though  some  years  his  senior,  and  dearest  to  him  in 
affection;  but  now — where  was  he?  Lost  to  him  with  all  that  the 
great  storm  of  his  life  had  carried  away— lost,  but  not  forgotten. 
His  eye  sought  him  among  the  officers,  one  or  two  of  whom  he 
recognized,  but  Leslie  was  not  there.  He  might  have  exchanged ; 
he  was  probably  promoted.  Who  knew  what  might  have  happened 
in  those  years  ? 

Yes, ’’one  of  the  ladies  said,  “my  husband  knew  him  well. 
They  were  stationed  at  Malta  together.  As  you  see,  our  regiment 
is  following  as  well  as  his  own.  A popular  officer,  as  nice  men 
generally  are.” 

Everard  had  observed  the  second  regiment,  and  at  the  same 
moment  it  had  struck  him  that,  although  the  charger  walking  with 
empty  saddle  behind  the  gun-carriage  showed  the  rank  of  the  de- 
ceased officer  to  be  at  least  that  of  major,  it  was  not  impossible 
that  his  brother  might  be  lying  beneath  the  Union  Jack.  Then  he 
caught  sight  of  the  occupants  of  the  mourning-coaches.  In  one  lie 
saw  the  gray  head  of  his  father,  and  his  heart  misgave  him.  But 
he  reflected  that  he  was  Admiral  of  the  Port.  Might  he  be  there 
in  his  official  capacity  ? But  George  was  there  also,  and  his  heart 
died  within  him. 

“ His  coming  home  was  so  sad,”  continued  one  of  the  ladies. 
“ If  he  could  but  have  lived  till  he  reached  land  ! But  he  died  just 
as  they  were  disembarking.  His  v>^ound  was  not  so  very  serious : 
he  got  fev^er  upon  it.” 

“ And  his  friends  were  just  too  late  to  see  him  alive,”  added  the 
other  lady.  “Only  one  child,  I think?  And  the  poor  wife  was 
here  to  receive  him.” 

This,  though  in  low  tones  such  as  ladies  naturally  use  in  a crowd, 
the  convict’s  eager,  strained  ears  caught,  till  at  last  be  could  bear  it 
no  longer;  and,  forgetful  of  the  strict  prison  discipline,  he  lifted 
his  cap,  and,  stepping  quickly  forward,  addressed  the  lady  nearest 
him. 

“Pardon  me,  madam,  the  officer’s  name?”  he  asked. 


218 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


Major  Everard,”  replied  the  lady,  startled  into  a quick  response, 
and  drawing  back  with  some  alarm. 

No.  62  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for  the  warder’s  stern  admoni- 
tion. He  drew  back  into  line,  while  the  hear.t-shaking  roll  of  the 
drums  and  the  wail  of  the  trumpets  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and 
the  crowd  moved  away.  Then  he  resumed  his  barrow  at  the  word 
of  command,  and  wheeled  it  along  the  plank  under  the  hot  sun ; 
but  heavy  tears  fell  upon  the  dry  rubbish  of  the  old  fortifications, 
and  ever  and  anon  he  lifted  his  toil-stained  hand  to  dash  away  the 
quick-fulling  drops,  while  his  comrades’  rude  jeers  and  foul  pleasant- 
ries, stealthily  muttered  as  they  were,  reached  his  ears  unheeded. 

‘‘Emily,”  said  the  lady  who  had  replied  to  the  convict’s  ques- 
tion, as  they  resumed  their  road  when  the  crowd  melted,  that  man 
was  a gentleman.  Did  you  notice  his  voice  and  the  way  in  which 
he  lifted  his  cap  ? ” 

“ Poor  fellow  ! ” returned  the  other.  “ Why  was  he  so  curious? 
He  will  be  |)unished  for  speaking,  you  know.  Perhaps  he  had  friends 
in  the  regiment.” 

“Perhaps.  By  the  way,  I wonder  how  soon  one  ought  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Everard?  She  really  never  joined  the  regiment,  you  see; 
but  our  husbands  w^ere  intimate  friends.” 

Leslie  dead ! the  gay  and  gallant  Leslie,  the  joyous,  light-hearted 
companion  of  his  boyhood,  his  father’s  favorite  son  ! Like  the  slow 
strokes  of  a knell  which  beat  into  the  agonized  brain  of  a mourner, 
these  mournful  words — Leslie  dead — kept  dinning  into  Everard’s 
ears  all  that  long  day.  He  heard  them  in  every  stroke  of  pick  and 
hammer,  while  he  toiled  on  with  his  barrow;  in  the  boom  of  guns 
at  sea;  in  the  measured  tread  of  the  convicts  as  they  marched  back 
to  dinner ; in  the  few  brief  orders  given  by  the  warders,  as  the  con- 
victs stood  with  arms  uplifted,  while  a rapid,  skilled  hand  was  passed 
over  every  inch  of  their  bodies  in  search  of  anything  that  might  have 
been  received  and  secreted  from  the  outer  v'orld ; in  the  clang  of  the 
prison  bell,  which  told  that  the  hour  of  respite  was  past,  and  time 
come  to  march  out  to  work  again. 

“ And  he  will  never  know  that  I was  innocent,”  thought  Everard, 
as  he  ate  his  solitary  meal  in  his  cell,  “Sein  Brod  mit  Thranen  ass.” 

Next  to  the  discovery  of  Cyril’s  treachery,  he  had  been  most 
cut  to  the  heart  by  receiving  no  message  or  communication  from 
Leslie  after  his  conviction.  The  admiral’s  stern  though  kindly  na- 
ture he  knew,  and  he  was  not  surprised  that,  after  the  long  array  of 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


219 


(iamning  evidence  against  him,  the  plain,  upright  sailor  should  treat 
him  as  one  dead ; nor  was  he  surprised,  though  deeply  pained,  that 
Keppel  should  do  likewise. 

His  sisters  and  their  husbands  he  knew  too  well  to  think  they 
would  ever  trouble  themselves  about  a disgraced  kinsman;  but 
Leslie,  the  generous,  warm-hearted  Leslie,  whom  he  so  loved  and 
admired,  and  Marion,  the  darling  of  his  childhood  and  youth — that 
they  siiould  think  him  guilty,  that  cut  into  the  very  core  of  his 
heart.  And  now  Leslie — unless,  indeed,  the  dead  see  the  things  of 
life  with  clearer  vision  than  they  who  are  still  mingled  in  its  tur- 
moil—could  never  know  that  he  was  innocent.  And  he  had  taken 
a wife — left  forlorn  now,  poor  soul  I — and  there  was  an  orphan 
child  of  his  own  blood.  And  so  the  great  stream  of  life  rolled  on 
past  the  desolate  rock  to  which  he  was  left  chained,  deaf  to  the 
thunder  of  the  on-rushing  waves,  clean  forgotten,  like  a dead  man 
out  of  mind. 

Like  those  sufferers  whom  Dante  met  in  hell,  and  who  thought 
no  more  of  their  agonies  in  the  bitter  tidings  he  brought  them  of 
their  beloved  on  earth,  No.  62  cared  little  for  the  punishment  and 
loss  of  good  marks  which  his  breach  of  discipline  cost  him.  It  was 
many  days  before  he  was  again  employed  on  the  fortifications,  for 
that  work  was  eagerly  coveted  and  only  given  to  the  best-behaved 
men,  both  because  it  afforded  the  unfortunate  captives  a welcome 
glimpse  of  the  outside  world,  and  also  because  it  offered  greater  fa- 
cilities of  escape  than  any  other  work,  greater  even  than  those 
which  the  dock-yard  laborers  enjoyed. 

Everard’s  next  week,  therefore,  was  spent  within  the  dreary 
confines  of  the  prison,  partly  at  accounts  and  partly  at  hospital 
duty,  in  which  he  was  much  more  useful  than  other  men  on  account 
of  his  previous  training,  but  duties  which  he  particularly  abhorred 
for  many  reasons;  among  others,  on  account  of  the  confinement 
and  the  leisure  they  gave  the  mind  for  brooding. 

It  is  difficult  to  realize  the  agony  of  despair  which  devoured 
Everard’s  heart  and  confused  his  intellect  in  the  first  months  of  his 
imprisonment.  The  horror  of  Cyril’s  treachery  and  evil-doing,  and 
the  shame  of  seeing  all  human  virtue  and  honor  in  the  dust,  blunted 
his  perceptions  of  minor  evils  at  first,  and  the  black  despair  of  feel- 
ing that  there  was  no  God,  or  only  some  cruel  deity  who  laughed 
at  the  misery  of  innocent  men  and  promoted  evil-doers,  made  him 
like  a stone. 


220 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


The  thought  that  his  life’s  purpose  was  wrecked ; that  lie  could 
now  never  pursue  those  grand  scientific  theories  which  he  was  so 
near  bringing  to  perfection  ; that  the  productions  of  centuries  of  hu- 
man intellect  were  closed  to  him  for  ever;  that  the  mental  powers 
he  so  delighted  in  exercising  must  rust,  and  perhaps  be  crushed  be- 
neath a daily  load  of  brute-like  drudgery  and  degrading  hardship ; 
that  his  finer  susceptibilities  would  be  blunted  or  effaced  by  the 
daily  contact  with  all  that  was  coarsest  and  foulest  in  human  na- 
ture ; that  he  would  be  utterly  cut  off  from  all  that  was  calculated 
to  nourish  and  refresh  the  higher  nature,  did  not  come  to  him  till 
much  later. 

Like  some  captured  wild  beast,  he  submitted  with  dogged  un- 
willingness to  the  restraints  of  superior  force;  he  did  his  prison 
tasks  with  the  mute  protest  of  the  blinded  Sampson  among  his  tor- 
mentors, not  caring  whether  he  pulled  down  the  pillars  of  his 
prison-house  or  not  in  his  savage  strength.  It  was  a relief  to  him 
to  exhaust  himself  in  hard  bodily  toil,  and  he  performed  feats  of 
strength  in  his  passion  which  surprised  men  born  and  trained  to 
physical  labor. 

The  chaplain  was  a man  for  whom  the  human  soul  had  no  secret 
sanctuary  in  which  angels,  much  less  foolish  and  sinful  men,  might 
fear  to  tread,  and  for  whom  the  highest  mysteries  of  the  divine  na- 
ture were  but  scraps  of  glib  commonplace ; a man  who  expected 
men  steeped  in  years  of  vice  and  foulness  to  be  converted  at  once 
by  the  rude  and  sudden  enunciation  of  his  well-worn  formula;  a 
sincere  and  well-meaning  man  withal,  who  looked  upon  earth  as  an 
antechamber  to  an  unspeakable  hell,  from  which  a very  small  and 
numbered  few  might  occasionally  be  snatched  by  a sort  of  chance- 
medley  jugglery,  of  which  he  and  half  a dozen  more  alone  knew  the 
catch- word,  or  enchanted  pass- word ; the  chaplain  pronounced  him 
an  utter  reprobate. 

But  have  you  no  care  for  your  poor  soul  ? ” he  asked  one  day, 
after  wearisome  exhortations  and  endless  questioning,  to  which  the 
prisoner  had  given  no  reply.  “^Tone  whatever,”  he  replied  at  last. 

He  was  no  favorite  with  the  warders,  whom  he  despised  in  his 
unjust  resentment  of  their  authority,  or  with  his  fellow-prisoners, 
who  hated  him,  firstly,  because  he  was  a gentleman ; and,  second- 
ly, because  all  his  looks  and  words  silently  rebuked  the  viciousness 
of  their  own.  Excessive  labor  and  hopeless  brooding  brought  him 
to  the  hospital  at  last. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


221 


The  prison  doctor  knew  his  history,  and  felt  for  him  as  for  a 
brother  in  trouble,  and,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  suspect  and  dis- 
cover malingering,  saw  at  once  that  No.  62’s  strange  malady  was  no 
feigned  one,  hut  arose  from  the  mind  rather  than  the  body.  One 
day,  after  many  rough  but  kindly  efforts  to  rouse  him,  he  said  at 
last: 

“If  you  go  on  like  this,  you  will  lose  your  reason  before  long.” 

“Reason ! ” retorted  the  patient  with  bitter  scorn.  “And  what 
nse  is  reason  to  me  ? ” 

“It  is  of  little  use  to  you,  perhaps,”  rejoined  the  officer,  moving 
away,  “but  the  loss  of  it  will  make  you  a dangerous  nuisance  to 
others.” 

This  drastic  observation  had  a wholesome  effect  upon  the  pris- 
oner’s stricken  mind.  The  notion  of  sinking  into  a dangerous 
nuisance  stung  him  into  a sense  of  the  unmanliness  of  giving  him- 
self up  to  his  miseries;  it  awoke  in  him  the  bracing  thought  that 
some  faint  remnants  of  duty  remained  even  to  one  so  cut  off  from 
his  kind  as  himself. 

He  thought  that  he  probably  would  become  insane,'  his  medical 
knowledge  told  him  how  much  he  had  to  fear  on  that  score  from 
his  terrible  life;  but  he  was  resolved  that  at  least  he  would  do  his 
best  to  preserve  his  wits.  He  therefore  took  counsel  with  the 
surgeon,  and  during  his  hospital  leisure  formed  a scheme  of  intel- 
lectual and  moral  discipline.  He  forced  himself  to  an  interest  in 
the  repulsive  human  creatures  and  the  dreary  occupations  of  the 
prison.  He  made  a mental  time-table,  in  which  certain  days  or 
hours  were  to  be  given  to  the  recollection  of  particular  fields  of 
knowledge,  certain  days  to  the  mental  speaking  of  Latin,  Greek, 
etc.  Such  poetry  as  he  knew  by  heart  he  arranged  for  periodic 
mental  repetition.  He  did  the  same  with  the  plots  of  (Eschylus 
and  others  which  he  loved,  and  could  not  obtain  from  the  prison 
library.  He  told  himself  the  story  of  Troy  and  the  wanderings  of 
Ulysses  on  many  a lonely  night.  He  traced  the  minutest  recesses 
of  his  fellow-prisoners’  anatomy  beneath  their  outward  semblance, 
mentally  depriving  them  of  flesh,  muscle,  and  sinew,  as  easily  as 
Carlyle’s  imagination  dispossessed  his  fellows  of  their  garments,  and 
lost  no  opportunity  of  observing  whatever  crossed  his  limited  field 
of  vision. 

It  was  weary  work,  but  it  saved  him.  He  fed  his  starving  heart 
with  memories  of  hours  passed  with  Lilian  and  others  dear  to 


222 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


him — memories  as  full  of  pain  as  pleasure,  particularly  those  which 
recalled  the  few  last  vivid  days  at  Malbourne  before  his  arrest.  Yet 
his  heart  was  still  bitter  with  black  despair. 

• Chapel-going  was  a dreary  thing,  and  little  calculated  to  edify 
one  less  full  of  despairing  doubt  than  Everard.  It  was  difficult  to 
preserve  a devotional  spirit  amid  tliat  crowd  of  foul-mouthed  male- 
factors, who  mingled  ribaldry  and  blasphemy  with  the  responses 
they  uttered  and  the  hymns  they  sang  for  the  sake  of  using  their 
voices. 

One  day  Everard  was  aroused  from  a mental  review  of  the 
symptoms  in  a complicated  and  interesting  case  he  once  conquered, 
during  the  sleepy  drone  of  the  Litany,  by  a rush  through  the  air 
near  him,  followed  by  a crash.  He  looked  up  in  time  to  see  the 
bent  head  of  the  governor  struck  by  the  shoe  of  the  prisoner  next 
him,  and  the  governor  himself  looked  up  in  time  to  receive  the  sec- 
ond shoe  full  in  his  face.  Tliis  incident,  typical  of  many  similar 
ones,  seriously  interfered  with  the  morning’s  devotion. 

One  drowsy,  warm  autumn  morning,  about  six  months  after  his 
conviction,  Everard  was  more  than  usually  depressed,  and  had  taken 
refuge  in  sorrowful  dreams  of  happier  days.  The  [jrisoners  were 
quieter  than  usual,  some  dozing,  some  refreshed  by  the  Te  Deum 
they  had  been  loudly  singing,  some  really  touched  by  the  awful  pa- 
thos of  the  gospel  which  was  being  read,  when  suddenly  a phrase 
seemed  to  detach  itself  from  the  rest  of  the  narrative,  and,  as  if 
uttered  by  a trumpet  voice,  to  trace  itself  deeply  upon  Everard ’s 
mind,  waking  him  from  his  melancholy  dream,  and  startling  him 
mto  a newer  life.  The  phrase  consisted  of  those  heart-shaking 
words,  ‘‘  My  God,  my  .God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me?  ” 

Every  detail  of  the  agony  and  crucifixion  flashed  clear  upon  his 
mind,  strangely  mingled  with  the  feeling  of  calm  strength  with 
which  the  picture  of  Gethsemane  in  the  study  at  Malbourne  had 
inspired  him  in  the  hour  of  his  extremity.  Tears  rushed  to  his 
eyes,  and  he  trembled.  All  those  weary  months  his  heart  had  been 
echoing  that  most  bitter  cry,  without  remembering  that  Christ  had 
been  forced  to  utter  it  in  the  hour  in  which  He  accomplished  man’s 
redemption. 

The  darkness  which  had  come  upon  him  in  the  prisoner’s  dock 
at  the  discovery  of  his  friend’s  baseness  rolled  away,  and  he  recog- 
nized his  own  wrong-doing.  What  was  Cyril,  after  all,  that  his  faith 
in  divine  and  human  goodness  should  depend  on  him?  Had  he  not 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


223 


idolized  the  poor,  weak,  erring  lad,  whom  liis  strength  should  rather 
have  pitied?  And  what  was  he  that  he  should  escape  that  darkness 
which  brooded  over  the  very  cross  ? How  many  men  down  the  long 
roll  of  the  ages  had  suffered  bonds  and  treachery,  being  innocent  ? 
Cyril’s  cynical  She  is  not  the  first,”  flashed  upon  him,  and  he  won- 
dered that  he  should  have  cried  out  so  loud  when  he  found  himself 
enrolled  in  the  vast  army  of  the  world’s  sufferers.  What  claim  had 
he  for  exemption  from  earth’s  anguish  ? 

“There  is  a God,  and  there  is  good,  and  the  bitterest  lot  has 
comfort,”  he  said  within  himself,  reversing  his  despairing  utterance 
in  the  dock  when  the  conviction  of  Cyril’s  treachery  flashed  upon 
him,  as  he  marched  with  his  fellow-sufferers  into  the  yard,  where 
an  hour  of  sunlight  and  freedom  within  four  walls  was  permitted 
them  on  Sundays. 

The  midday  sky  was  transparently  blue  and  suffused  with  light, 
so  that  it  was  a joy  to  look  upon ; the  sunny  autumn  air  was  sweet 
to  breathe ; and  the  sheets  of  sunshine  fell  pleasantly  upon  him,  in 
spite  of  the  garb  of  shame  and  bondage  they  lighted,  and  the  prison 
walls  whose  shadows  limited  them,  and  for  the  first  moment  since 
his  imxjrisonment  Everard  felt  that  enjoyment  was  possible,  even  to 
one  so  stricken  as  himself,  since  Heaven  smiled  still  upon  him,  cap- 
tive though  he  was. 

Just  then  an  oblong  packet  was  put  in  his  hand.  He  looked  at 
it  with  mute  amazement  for  a moment,  for  he  had  forgotten  how  it 
feels  to  receive  a letter ; and  then  he  uttered  a faint  cry,  for  the 
handwriting  was  Lilian’s.  His  first  instinct  was  to  conceal  it  from 
the  vulgar  crew  around  him,  and  he  scarcely  noticed  that  the  sacred 
cbver,  closed  by  the  beloved  hand,  had  been  violated  by  some  stran- 
ger’s touch,  according  to  the  stern  prison  rule. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  yard  as  one  whose  steps  are  on  ai?*, 
his  eyes  full  of  soft  fire,  happy  merely  to  hold  the  trerasure  in  his 
hand.  He  did  not  open  it  till  he  was  alone  in  his  cell,  that  nar- 
row witness  of  so  much  agony,  which  now  became  a palace  of  de- 
light. 

It  was  a letter  such  as  only  the  tenderness  of  a good  and  loving 
woman  for  one  in  deep  affliction  could  inspire.  It  had  touched 
even  the  official  reader,  accustomed  to  moving  letters  full  of  ill- 
spelled  pathos  from  broken-hearted  and  often  injured  women  to  the 
villains  they  loved,  and  it  went  into  the  very  marrow  of  Everard’s 
being,  and  steeped  him  in  an  atmosphere  of  pure  thought  and  high- 
15 


224: 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


souled  feeling,  to  which  he  had  long  been  a stranger,  and  which 
refreshed  his  parched  spirit  like  waters  in  a desert  of  burning 
sand. 

Lilian  briefly  mentioned  Cyril’s  terrible  illness  and  her  own,  and 
described  his  state,  which  was  still  one  of  doubtful  sanity,  requiring 
the  most  watchful  care;  there  were  few  tidings  besides.  Then  she 
spoke  of  Henry’s  affliction,  and  bid  him  keep  up  his  heart,  and  pray 
constantly,  as  she  did,  that  his  innocence  might  be  made  clear.  That 
the  truth  must  come  out  sooner  or  later,  she  was  convinced,  refer- 
ring him  to  the  great  promises  made  to  the  just  men  in  the  Script- 
ures. In  the  mean  time,  who  could  tell  but  that  some  wise  and 
beneficent  end  was  to  be  fulfilled  by  his  sojourn  in  prison.  The 
purposes  of  the  Almighty  w^ere  deep  and  unsearchable,  far  hidden 
from  the  thoughts  of  men  ; but  whatever  treachery  and  wickedness 
had  brought  Everard  to  that  pass  of  shame  and  misery,  she  bid 
him  remember  that  without  the  divine  permission  he  could  not  be 
there. 

What  if  some  nobler  and  higher  use  than  he  could  ever  have 
wrought  outside  in  the  free  world  were  to  be  his  in  that  dreary 
place  ? Who  could  say  w^hat  the  influence  of  one  solitary  mau  of 
stainless  life  might  be  in  that  crowd  of  degraded  yet  still  human 
creatures,  or  what  sorrow  might  be  there  to  comfort?  Let  him 
only  remember  that  the  Almighty  had  placed  him  in  that  dreary 
dungeon  as  surely  as  He  had  placed  the  sovereign  on  the  throne, 
the  priest  at  the  altar,  and  the  bright  blossom  in  the  sunshine,  and 
take  comfort. 

These  opportune  words  soothed  and  strengthened  Everard’s  soul, 
the  more  so  as  Lilian  did  not  underrate  the  magnitude  of  the  sacri- 
fice he  had  been . called  upon  to  make,  but  spoke  feelingly  of  the 
cruel  denials  and  degradations  of  his  lot,  and  of  the  frustration  of 
their  common  hopes,  and  of  the  separation,  which  she  trusted  might 
soon  be  at  an  end. 

She  bid  him  remember  also  that,  as  a true  lover,  he  must  keep 
up  his  courage  for  her  sake,  and  hope  in  the  future,  which  they 
might  still  enjoy  together.  Nor  was  this  noble  letter  wanting  in 
those  assurances  of  love  which  are  so  cordial  to  parted  lovers.  Its 
effect  upon  the  lonely  prisoner  is  difficult  to  imagine,  much  less 
describe. 

But  it  was  greatly  due  to  the  hope  and  faith  which  it  inspired, 
that  from  that  day  the  prison  became  to  Everard  no  longer  a place 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


225 


of  darkness  and  despair,  but  a part  of  God’s  own  world,  over  wliich 
divine  wisdom  and  mercy  still  smiled,  and  in  which  a man’s  soul 
might  still  find  its  necessary  celestial  food. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Eyeraed  found,  to  his  unspeakable  consolation,  that  he  might 
answer  Lilian’s  letter,  though  his  answer  would  have  to  pass  before 
the  cold  eyes  of  the  officials;  and,  further,  that  once  in  every  few 
months  Lilian  intended  to  write  to  him. 

Thus  from  time  to  time  his  soul  was  braced  and  refreshed  by  the 
dear  delight  of  communicating  with  the  being  he  loved  most  in  the 
world.  How  he  counted  the  weeks  and  days  till  the  day  of  days 
arrived;  how  he  treasured  phrases  and  sentences  of  those  precious 
letters  (which  he  was,  of  course,  not  allowed  to  preserve)  in  his 
memory ; and  how  much  thought  he  gave  beforehand  to  the  com- 
position of  replies ! 

Many  dark  and  terrible  hours  of  hitter  inward  wrestling  he  still 
had  after  that  blessed  antumn  Sunday,  but  the  general  tenor  of  his 
inward  life  was  brave  and  hopeful.  He  found  much  to  interest  him 
in  his  fellow-prisoners,  and  here  and  there  flowers  of  tenderness 
and  charity  sprung  up  along  the  barren  prison  path,  and  he  even 
formed  friendships — yes,  warm  and  lasting  friendships — with  some 
of  the  felons  among  Avhom  his  lot  was  cast,  and  enjoyed  the  pure 
happiness  of  knowing  that  he  had,  as  Lilian  predicted,  rescued  more 
than  one  fallen  creature  from  despair,  and  set  his  face  heaven- 
ward. 

Among  his  first  friends  was  a young  fellow  whose  character  re- 
minded him  strongly  of  Cyril’s,  lovable,  pious,  well-disposed,  re- 
fined, but  weak  and  selfish.  He  was  of  gentle  birth,  and  had  held 
a position  of  trust  under  a large  banking  firm.  He  married  young 
on  a small  income ; marriage  brought  cares,  and  did  not  diminish 
the  love  of  pleasure.  He  got  into  debt,  gambled  to  extricate  him- 
self, and,  of  course,  plunged  further  in.  Ruin  stared  him  in  the  face^ 
and  he  embezzled  the  sums  trusted  him,  meaning,  as  such  criminals 
usually  do,  to  pay  all  back  in  time.  He  left  a young  wife  and  child 
destitute  in  the  hard  world  while  undergoing  his  seven  years  im^ 


226 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


prisonment.  He  was  heart-broken,  and  Everard  saw  him  glide 
swiftly  into  the  clutches  of  consumption  and  fade  before  him. 

Many  a stroke  of  work  he  did  for  the  poor  weakling,  and  many 
a thought  of  hope  and  manly  cheerfulness  he  gave  him.  And  by 
the  darkness  in  the  prison  the  day  the  poor  fellow  was  taken  to  the 
infirmary — never  more,  as  Everard  well  knew,  to  come  out  again — 
he  knew  how  much  brightness  his  friendship  had  made  in  that 
dreary  spot.  Everard,  as  a special  grace,  besought  them  to  give 
him  hospital  duty,  that  he  might  himself  tend  his  dying  friend,  and 
thus  he  was  able  to  soothe  his  latest  moments ; receive  his  piteous 
message  for  his  wife,  whom  Everard  had  little  hope  of  ever  meet- 
ing; and  close  his  eyes  when  he  had  no  more  need  of  the  sun. 

As  the  outer  world  so  was  the  narrow  prison  sphere,  Everard 
found  after  awhile : men  trusted  and  betrayed,  loved  and  hated, 
schemed  and  envied,  derided  misfortune  or  helped  it,  as  in  the 
world,  only  there  was  a larger  percentage  of  rascals  inside  the  prison 
than  outside.  His  friends  were  chiefly  gentlemen,  though  he  sought 
the  friendship  of  the  lowest ; a man  had  but  to  be  miserable  to 
found  a claim  upon  his  heart. 

But  never  till  he  dwelt  on  equal  terms  with  the  scum  of  all 
classes  did  he  discover  how  hard  and  inflexible  are  the  . iron  bars 
which  divide  class  from  class.  The  gentlemen,  from  the  fraudulent 
director  and  forging  ex-Guardsman,  down  to  the  smallest  clerk  or 
shopman  who  could  handle  a pen,  hailed  him  as  a brother,  while 
those  who  belonged  to  what  one  may  call  tiie  washing  classes  were 
as  his  twin  brothers ; but  the  hand-laborers,  the  non-readers  and 
non-washers,  and  the  criminal  class  proper,  looked  upon  him  as 
their  natural  enemy,  and,  beyond  mere  brutal  elementary  necessi- 
ties, discovered  little  on  which  they  could  exchange  sympathy  and 
build  friendship. 

Everard  sometimes  longed  for  half  a dozen  villainous  noblemen, 
a misdoing  minister  or  two,  and  one  or  two  iniquitous  emperors  to 
make  the  social  world  complete.  In  that  case,  in  spite  of  the  prison 
equality,  there  would  be  no  fear,  he  well  knew,  that  the  little 
society  would  resolve  itself  into  a republic ; the  rascal  emperor 
would  have  his  rascal  court,  and  the  minor  rascals  would  fall  natu- 
rally into  their  places. 

In  the  process  of  the  long  years  a sort  of  sleep  had  settled  upon 
Everard’s  nature.  He  grew  so  inured  to  the  prison  routine,  with  its 
numbing  drudgery,  that  he  had  ceased  to  think  of  freedom  or  feel 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


227 


active  pain  in  his  never-ceasing  torment.  But  Leslie’s  funeral  was 
like  the  stab  of  a sharp  knife  in  a numbed  limb;  it  woke  him  to  full 
consciousness  of  his  misery  and  degradation.  He  had  been  at 
Portsmouth  only  for  some  six  mohths,  having  been  suddenly  trans- 
ported thither,  he  knew  not  why,  and  he  had  but  recently  discov 
ered  that  his  father  was  port-admiral. 

Daily,  as  he  worked  on  the  dock-yard  extension,  he  had  passed 
the  admiral’s  great  house,  with  the  green  in  front,  and  the  sema- 
phore, waving  long  arms  to  all  the  subject  ships  in  harbor,  upon  its 
roof,  and  had  looked  at  it  with  a listless,  incurious  eye,  little  dream- 
ing who  was  the  chief  figure  in  the  court  which  gathers  round  the 
port- admiral  as  a tiny  social  king,  till  one  sunny  noon,  when  going 
home  to  dinner  with  his  gang,  he  saw  the  admiral  descending  the 
steps  to  welcome  some  guests,  and  felt  the  sting  of  his  humiliation 
as  he  had  never  done  before,  not  even  when  one  day,  in  the  midst 
of  his  muddy  work  at  the  extension,  he  had  seen  Keppel  in  full 
uniform  rowed  ashore  from  his  ship  with  all  the  pomp  and  circum- 
stance of  a naval  captain  on  blue  waters.  Some  weeks  before  the 
funeral,  when  he  was  going  on  to  the  dock-yard  works  at  early 
morning,  the  port-admiral’s  house  was  still  lighted  up,  its  windows 
shone  sickly  in  the  gray  daylight,  a few  carriages  were  still  drawn 
up  in  a lessening  line  before  the  principal  door,  and  the  last  strains 
of  a military  band  were  dying  away. 

The  admiral,  assisted  by  his  daughter-in-law,  the  Hon.  Mrs. 
Keppel  Everard,  had  given  a great  ball  that  night,  and  in  one  of  the 
carriages,  into  which  the  admiral  was  leaning,  talking,  Ko.  62  saw 
a black-coated  man,  whose  features,  dim  in  the  shadow,  suggested 
Cyril’s,  and  by  his  side,  pale  from  the  long  night’s  waking,  and 
talking  to  the  old  man,  was  surely,  surely,  his  own  sister  Marion. 

Did  they  know  he  was  there?  or  had  Lilian  purposely  withheld 
the  information  to  spare  them  pain  ? He  could  not  tell.  But  these 
circumstances,  together  with  the  funeral,  conspired  to  make  his  life 
intolerable,  and,  when  once  more  he  found  himself  laboring  on  the 
old  fortifications,  he  stepped  along  in  the  gang  with  a subdued  leap 
in  his  gait,  like  a caged  beast. 

Long  since  he  had  renounced  the  hope  of  being  freed  by  Cyril’s 
conscience.  He  had  never  made,  any  attempt  to  fasten  the  guilt  on 
the  real  criminal;  he  shrank  from  the  complex  misery  it  would 
bring  upon  all  dear  to  him ; and,  moreover,  his  evidence,  though 
absolutely  convincing  to  himself,  was  purely  conjectural.  He  could 


228 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


bring  not  one  proof,  no  single  witness,  save  the  dumb  cat,  and  that 
evidence,  he  well  knew,  would  suffice  only  to  convince  the  one 
person  he  most  wished  to  be  ignorant  of  the  truth,  Lilian  herself. 

The  day  on  which  he  returned  to  the  fortifications  was  hot  and 
fiercely  bright.  The  town  was  full  of  life.  Gay  carriages  were 
hearing  ladies  in  light  summer  bravery  to  garden-parties,  afternoon 
dances  on  board  ships,  and  other  revels ; bands  were  playing  on 
piers ; vessels  of  every  kind,  some  gay  with  flags,  dotted  the  Solent 
and  the  calm  blue  harbor ; colors  had  been  trooped  on  the  common, 
troops  had  marched  past  the  convicts;  the  sweet  chimes  of  St. 
Thomas’s  had  rung  a wedding  peal ; the  great  guns  had  thundered 
out  royal  salutes  to  the  royal  yacht  as  she  bore  the  sovereign  over 
to  the  green  Wight;  there  was  such  a rush  and  stir  of  life  as  quite 
bewildered  Everard,  and  made  the  sharpest  contrast  to  his  gray  and 
dreary  prison  life.  To  see  these  freest  of  free  creatures,  the  street 
boys,  sauntering  or  springing  at  will  along  the  hot  streets,  or,  cast- 
ing off  their  dirty  rags,  flinging  themselves  into  the  fresh  salt  sea, 
and  reveling  there  like  young  Tritons,  or  balanced  on  rails,  criti- 
cising the  passing  troops,  was  maddening. 

The  day  grew  hotter,  but  pick  and  barrow  had  to  be  plied  with- 
out respite,  though  the  sweat  poured  from  hot  brows,  and  one  man 
dropped.  Everard  saw  that  it  was  sunstroke,  and  not  malingering, 
as  the  warder  was  inclined  to  think,  and  by  his  earnest  representa- 
tions got  the  poor  creature  proper  treatment.  The  brassy  sky  grew 
lurid  purple,  and  heavy  growls  of  thunder  came  rumbling  from  the 
distance ; some  large  drops  of  rain  fell  scantily  : and  then  suddenly 
the  sky  opened  from  horizon  to  horizon  and  let  down  a sheet  of 
vivid  flame.  Darkness  followed,  and  a roar,  as  of  all  the  artillery 
at  Portsmouth  firing  and  all  its  magazines  exploding  at  once. 

“Now  or  never,”  thought  Everard,  and,  dropping  his  barrow 
at  the  end  of  his  plank,  he  leapt  straight  ahead  down  into  a waste 
patch,  over  which  he  sprang  to  the  road.  He  ran  for  life  and  liberty 
with  a speed  he  did  not  know  himself  capable  of,  straight  on,  blindly 
aiming  at  the  shore,  tearing  off  his  cap  and  jacket  and  flinging  them 
widely  in  different  directions,  as  he  went  through  the  dark  curtain 
of  straight,  rushing  rain. 

The  warders,  bewildered  by  the  awful  roar  of  the  thunder, 
blinded  by  the  flerce,  quick  dazzle  of  the  lightning  and  the  blackness 
of  the  all-concealing  rain,  did  not  at  first  miss  him.  It  was  only 
when  he  leapt  the  palisade  bounding  the  roatd,  and  showed  through 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


229 


the  rg^in-curtain  a bare-headed,  fugitive  figure,  that  the  grim  guard- 
ian caught  sight  of  him.  Had  he  possessed  the  nerve  to  walk  quietly 
out  through  the  gate,  he  might  have  got  off  unobserved  under  cover 
of  the  storm. 

Quick  as  thought,  the  warder,  on  seeing  him,  lifted  his  piece  to 
his  shoulder  and  tired.  He  was  a good  marksman,  and  his  face 
lighted  up  with  satisfaction  as  he  hit  his  lin  ing  quarry,  in  spite  of 
the  bad  light  and  confusing  storm. 

Everard  felt  a sharp,  hot  sting  in  the  thigh,  but  ran  on,  his  course 
marked  with  blood,  which  the  friendly  storm  quickly  washed  away. 
The  darkness  became  intenser,  the  lightning  more  blinding,  the 
downrush  of  rain  heavier,  and  the  crashing  of  the  thunder  more 
deafening.  Nevertheless,  the  alarm  was  given,  and  the  pursuers 
were  soon  in  full  chase. 

Down  the  now  deserted  high-road  dashed  the  fugitive,  every 
faculty  he  possessed  concentrated  on  flight.  With  the  blind  instinct 
of  the  hunted,  he  rushed  at  the  first  turning,  through  a gate,  up  some 
steps,  along  to  the  bastion,  which  rose  behind  the  powder  magazines. 
He  darted  along  some  pleasant  green  walk  under  the  massy  elms, 
till  he  reached  the  first  sentry-box,  in  which  stood  the  sentry,  a 
stalwart  Highlander,  sheltering  from  the  storm. 

Instead  of  firing  on  him,  as  the  desperate  fugitive  expected,  the 
man  stepped  swiftly  aside,  and  the  panting  runner,  divining  his 
friendly  purpose,  ran  into  the  box. 

The  soldier  swiftly  resumed  his  station,  and  stood  looking  out 
with  an  immovable  face  as  before,  while  the  hunted  convict,  in  the 
darkness  in  the  narrow  space  at  his  side,  stood  face  inward,  close 
pressed  to  the  wooden  wall,  soaked  to  the  skin,  and  panting  in  hard 
gasps  that  were  almost  groans,  yet  sufficiently  master  of  himself  to 
press  a wad  of  folded  trouser  on  the  bleeding  wound,  which  proved 
to  be  only  a flesh  graze,  but  which  might  ruin  the  friendly  Scot  by 
its  damning  stains  on  the  floor  of  the  box. 

“Quiet’s  the  word,”  said  the  hospitable  sentry,  and  nothing 
more. 

Some  minutes  passed.  Everard’s  breathing  became  less  labored, 
and  his  reflections  more  agonized;  the  thunder-peals  grew  less  tre- 
mendous, while  the  rain  became  heavier.  The  pursuers  had  lost' 
sight  of  their  prey  in  the  road  before  he  reached  the  gate,  and  had 
been  thrown  off  the  scent,  while  still  sending  searchers  in  all  direc- 
tions. Two  of  these  turned  up  through  the  gate,  and  one  explored 


230 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


all  the  nooks  and  crannies  of  the  crescent-shaped  space  walled  by 
the  bastion  which  sheltered  the  powder-magazines,  while  the  other 
examined  the  path  itself,  and  interrogated  the  sentry. 

“Past  the  Garrison  Chapel,  toward  High  Street;  out  of  my 
range,”  he  said  coolly ; and  the  pursuer,  calling  his  comrade,  flew 
with  him  along  the  bastion,  not  stopping  to  inquire  of  the  other 
sentries.  “ Gone  away,”  observed  the  Highlander  to  his  quivering 
guest,  who  had  feared  lest  his  light- colored  dress  might  betray  him 
behind  the  sentry,  whose  plaid  and  kilt  and  feather  bonnet  tilled 
up  all  of  the  opening  not  darkened  by  his  tall  figure.  “ Off  the 
scent.  What  next,  mate  ? ” 

“ Heaven  knows ! I only  hope  I may  not  ruin  you.  If  I get  off 
I will  not  forget  you.  My  friends  are  well  off,  and  I am — ” 

“ Henry  Everard.  Seen  you  often  with  your  gang — recognized 
at  once.” 

“ Good  heavens!  ” cried  Everard,  not  seeing  his  host’s  handsome 
face,  but  feeling  a vague  stir  of  memory  at  his  voice;  “who  are 
you?  ” 

“Private  Walker,  ITOth  Highlanders.  Was  Balfour  of  Christ- 
church.” 

“Balfour?  What!  come  to  this?  What  did  we  not  expect  of 
you?” 

“Wear  a better  coat  than  yours.  Manhy  rough  on  you — hard 
lines.  Do  anything  for  you.” 

“You  always  were  a good-hearted  fellow.  And  I was  innocent, 
Balfour ; I had  not  the  faintest  grudge  against  the  poor  fellow. 
But  how  did  you  come  to  this?  You  took  honors.” 

“ Governor  poor — large  family — small  allowance  at  Cambridge 
— debts — Jews.  Called  to  Bar — small  allowance  again — no  briefs 
— more  debts — more  Jews.  Governor  suggests  Australia — all  up 
here — didn’t  see  boiling  tallow  in  Australia — if  a day-laborer,  why 
not  in  England  ? Always  liked  the  service — enlisted — Hussar  regD 
ment — jolly  life — saw  service — full  sergeant — time  expired.  Sent 
into  Reserve — not  allowed  to  re-enlist — name  of  Smith.  Tried  civil 
life  '—down  on  my  luck  again — deserted  from  reserve — re-enlisted  in 
Highlanders — name  of  Walker — enlistment  fraudulent — liable  to 
imprisonment — foreign  service  soon — all  right.  Now  for  you?  ” 

Everard  had  to  confess  that  he  did  not  in  the  least  know  what 
to  do  next,  unless  he  could  hide  till  the  darkness  rendered  his  dress 
unobservable.  The  moment  he  was  seen  he  would  be  recognized 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


231 


anywhere  as  a convict.  Various  schemes  were  revolved  between 
them  as  rapidly  as  possible,  for  it  was  essential  that  Everard  should 
leave  the  sentry-box  for  a better  hiding-place  before  the  rapid 
diminishing  of  the  storm  should  once  more  open  the  bastion  to  ob- 
servers. 

The  massive  foliage  of  the  elms  hard  by  might  have  hidden  a 
regiment,  and  Balfour  had  observed  that  the  branches  attracted  no 
suspicion  on  the  part  of  the  pursuers,  and,  as  the  forking  of  the 
boughs  did  not  begin  till  many  feet  off  the  ground,  and  the  broad, 
smooth  trunk  offered  not  the  smallest  foot-hold,  it  ^was  impossible 
for  a man  to  climb  into  them  unassisted. 

But  the  sentry  remembered  that  a stout  rope  had  been  flung 
aside  there  by  some  gunners  busy  cleaning  the  cannon  on  the  bas- 
tion that  day.  If  Everard  could  find  this,  and  fling  it  over  a bough, 
he  might  hoist  himself  up.  If  he  could  not  find  it,  the  soldier 
offered  to  come  and  lend  him  his  shoulder — an  action  that  might 
attract  observation  even  in  the  darkness  of  the  storm,  since  that 
part  of  the  bastion  was  commanded  by  many  windows,  and  that 
would,  if  discovered,  bring  certain  ruin  upon  both  men. 

Everard  darted  swiftly  from  the  box  and  groped  about  in  the 
wet  grass  till  he  found  the  rope.  This,  in  the  still  blinding  rain,  he 
threw  over  the  lowest  stout  branch,  keeping  one  end,  and  fearful 
lest  the  other  would  not  descend  within  reach.  After  a couple  of 
casts,  however,  he  succeeded  in  bringing  the  second  end,  in  which 
he  had  fastened  a stone,  within  easy  reach,  and  grasping  both,  and 
planting  his  feet  against  the  broad  bole,  slippery  with  wet,  man- 
aged to  struggle  up  with  moderate  speed.  He  was  half-way  up, 
and,  pausing  a moment  to  steady  himself  and  look  round,  saw  to 
his  infinite  horror  that  he  was  exactly  opposite  to,  and  in  full  view 
and  firing  range  of,  the  sentry  on  the  opposite  end  of  the  bastion, 
which  was  roughly  crescent-shaped. 

Outlined  as  he  was,  and  almost  stationary  against  the  tree-trunk, 
he  presented  the  easiest  target  for  a moderate  range  shot.  The  man 
was  in  no  hurry  for  his  easy  prey,  he  lifted  his  musket  slowly,  while 
Everard  paused,  transfixed  with  horror.  The  sentry  seemed  as  if 
waiting  for  him  to  rise  into  a still  better  position  for  a shot.  Ever- 
ard slipped  down,  expecting  to  hear  a ball  sing  over  his  head,  if  not 
into  his  body ; but  there  was  no  report,  and  he  stood  irresolute  a 
moment,  seeking  where  to  fly. 

A signal  of  warning  and  haste  from  Balfour  made  him  once 


232 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


more  grasp  his  rope  in  desperation,  and  climb  througli  the  peril  of 
the  sentry’s  aim.  A flash  of  lightning  showed  him  his  foe  standing 
as  before,  with  his  musket  planted  flrraly  in  front  of  him ; he  was 
supporting  himself  placidly  with  both  hands  clasped  upon  it,  and 
his  head  bent  slightly  down,  almost  as  if  he  had  fallen  asleep  at  his 
post. 

But  Everard  knew  that  the  most  careless  sentries  do  not  fall 
asleep  in  the  process  of  aiming  at  fugitive  prisoners,  and  pressed  on 
till  he  reached  the  flrst  fork,  where  he  rested,  wondering  why  no  shot 
had  been  flred.  The  fact  was,  the  rain  was  beating  straight  into  the 
man’s  face,  and  he  had  much  ado  to  see  a yard  before  him,  and  had 
raised  his  musket  merely  to  see  if  the  breech  was  properly  shielded 
from  the  wet.  Everard,  however,  hoisting  up  his  rope,  climbed 
higher  into  his  green  fortress,  expecting  nothing  less  than  to  have 
it  soon  riddled  in  all  directions  by  a fusillade  from  below.  To  his 
surprise  he  heard  Balfour’s  signal  of  safety,  and  gladly  responded  to 
it ; for  they  had  framed  a little  code  of  signals  before  parting. 

It  was  comparative  luxury  to  the  weary,  wounded  man  to  sit 
astride  a branch,  with  his  back  against  the  trunk,  and  the  foot  of 
the  wounded  limb  supported  upon  a lower  bough,  and  he  gave  a 
sigh  of  deep  relief,  and  reflected  that  he  was  at  last,  after  all  those 
dreary  years  of  bondage,  free.  Balfour  could  do  nothing  till  he  was 
off  guard,  which  would  happen  in  another  half  hour.  Nothing  could 
be  done  during  the  next  sentry’s  guard,  because  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  get  at  him  and  see  how  far  he  could  be  trusted ; but  if  any 
subsequent  sentry  proved  manageable,  and  if  Balfour  could  get 
a pass  for  the  night,  he  might  bring  him  some  sort  of  clothing, 
and  then,  under  favorable  circumstances,  he  might  get  off.  And 
then  ? 

The  storm  abated,  the  last  low  mutterings  of  thunder  died  away 
in  the  distance,  the  rain  ceased,  and  the  evening  sun  shone  out  with 
golden  clearness.  Some  of  the  long  slanting  beams  pierced  the 
green  roof  of  his  airy  prison,  and  fell  hopefully  upon  the  fugitive’s 
face.  He  heard  the  sentry’s  measured  tread  below,  and  then  the 
change  of  guard ; the  hum  of  the  town,  and  the  noises  from  the 
vessels  at  anchor,  came,  mingled  with  distant  bugle  calls,  to  his 
lonely  tower.  The  light  faded,  the  sun  went  down  in  glory,  the 
gun  on  the  bastion  fired  the  sunset,  the  parish  church  chimed  half- 
past eight,  the  sounds  from  sea  and  shore  came  more  distinct  on  the 
quieting  night  air,  and  he  heard  the  band  of  a Highland  regiment 


THE  SILEECE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


233 


begin  its  skirl  of  pipes  on  the  Clarence  pier.  It  was  probably  Bal- 
four’s regiment. 

Poor  Balfour ! He  fell  to  thinking  of  his  unfortunate  lot,  much 
as  he  had  to  occupy  his  thoughts  with  regard  to  his  own  immediate 
destiny.  Only  that  week,  Balfour’s  father,  General  Sir  Ronald  Bal- 
four, K.  0.  B.,  as  general  commanding  at  Portsmouth,  had  reviewed 
the  troops,  Balfour  himself  being  more  than  once  face  to  face  with 
his  father.  This  he  told  Everard,  adding  that  on  a recent  foreign 
royal  visit  to  Portsmouth  the  I79th  had  formed  a guard  of  honor  to 
the  royal  guests,  and  that  Admiral  Everard  had  walked  down  the 
lane  of  which  he  made  a part,  in  the  wake  of  the  royal  party, 
chancing  to  come  to  a full  stop  just  on  his  level. 

Balfour,  the  star  of  the  Debating  Society,  the  man  whom  they 
had  hoped  to  see  on  the  Woolsack ; w^hat  a fall  was  here ! ‘‘  Unlucky 
beggar ! ” was  the  philosophic  Highlander’s  sole  comment  on  his  ill- 
starred  destiny.  A good  fellow,  and  a man  without  a vice. 

The  air  was  chill  after  sunset.  Everard,  motionless  on  his  airy 
perch,  bare-headed,  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  was  wet  to  the  skin,  and 
shivered  with  a double  chill  after  the  heat  of  his  hard  labor  in  the 
sultry  afternoon.  His  wound  ached  till  he  began  to  fear  it  might 
lame  him,  and  his  hunger  waxed  keener  as  the  night  deepened  and 
the  cold  increased.  The  stars  came  out  and  looked  at  him  with 
their  friendly,  quieting  gaze.  He  could  see  the  sparkle  of  lights  in 
the  water  and  in  the  town ; he  could  make  out  the  lights  of  the 
admiral’s  signal-station  on  his  housetop  above  the  dock-yard. 

Which  man-of-war  was  Keppel’s?  he  wondered,  knowing  noth- 
ing even  of  the  outside  world  that  was  so  near  him.  The  chimes  of 
the  parish  church  told  him  the  hours,  and  he  knew  when  the  guard 
would  be  relieved. 

It  was  a weary  night ; its  minutes  lagged  by  leaden-paced.  He 
thought  their  long  procession  would  never  end ; and  yet  there  was 
a strange,  delicious  enchantment  in  the  feeling  that  he  had  at  last 
broken  the  bars  of  that  iron  prison,  with  its  terrible  bondage  of  un- 
bending routine  and  drudgery.  The  thick  foliage  of  the  elm  still 
held  the  wet,  which  every  passing  breath  of  the  night  wind  shook 
on  to  the  grass  below  in  a miniature  shower.  The  moon  rose  and 
wandered  in  pale  majesty  across  the  sweet  blue  sky — such  a free, 
broad  night  sky  as  had  not  blessed  his  eyes  for  years  and  years;  its 
beams  hung  his  green  fortress  roof  with  pearls  and  trembling  dia- 
monds, falling  over  and  anon  to  the  earth.  Sentinel  after  sentinel 


234 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


came  on  guard  below,  but  there  was  no  friendly  signal  from  beneath. 
He  had  descended  to  the  lowest  bough  to  catch  the  slightest  sound. 
The  watch  was  passing;  the  early  dawn  would  shine  on  the  next 
watch,  and,  if  help  did  not  come  before  the  sunrise,  he  would  have 
to  wait  till  the  following  night,  wet,  starved,  suffering  as  he  was. 
But  no ; there  is  the  welcome  signal  at  last. 

Quickly  he  gave  the  answering  signal;  and,  bending, down  in  the 
darkness,  heard  the  following  sentence  above  the  sound  of  the  sen- 
tineTs  backward  and  forward  steps : “ Sentry  blind  and  deaf — sneak 
off  to  right.  Catch.” 

Something  flew  up  to  him  in  the  dark,  and,  after  two  misses,  he 
caught  it ; and  then,  rising  to  where  a rift  in  the  foliage  let  in  a shaft 
of  rays  from  the  waning  moon,  unfastened  his  bundle,  which  was 
roughly  tied  with  string. 

A battered  hat,  very  large  so  that  it  would  hide  the  close-cropped 
head;  a boatman’s  thick  blue  jersey ; and  a pair  of  wide  trousers, 
worn  and  stained,  with  a belt  to  fasten  them ; also  some  second- 
hand boots— such  was  the  simple  but  sufiicient  wardrobe  which 
Balfour  had  purchased  with  his  slender  means,  and  brought  him  at 
deadly  risk. 

Everard  was  able  to  discard  every  rag  of  the  tell-tale  prison 
garb,  stamped  all  over  as  it  was  with  the  broad  arrow,  and,  securing 
the  dangerous  garments  to  a branch  of  the  tree,  invested  himself  in 
the  contents  of  the  bundle — an  occupation  that  took  so  long,  owing 
to  the  inconvenience  of  his  lofty  dressing-room,  that  the  eastern 
sky  was  brightening,  and  the  friendly  sentinel’s  watch  almost  ex- 
pired, by  the  time  he  was  ready  to  descend  from  his  perch,  which 
he  did  noiselessly  and  apparently  unobserved  by  the  sentry. 

Then,  slowly  and  painfully — for  his  limbs  were  cramped  and 
chilled,  and  his  wound  ached — he  glided  behind  the  dark  boles  till 
he  reached  he  steps,  and,  descending  them,  found  to  his  dismay  that 
the  gate  was  locked. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

Theee  is  almost  always  some  small  but  vitally  important  hitch 
in  the  best-laid  human  plans,  and  the  hitch  in  Balfour’s  arrangement 
was  that  he  forgot  the  nightly  locking  of  the  gate  leading  on  to  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


235 


bastion.  He  had  approached  the  tree  from  the  other  side,  passing 
the  sentries,  being  challenged  by  them,  and  giving  the  word  in 
reply. 

Everard  knew  the  bastion,  and  had  had  many  a pleasant  stroll 
there  in  old  days,  when  stopping  with  bis  father  when  in  port,  and 
he  knew  well  that  his  only  course  was  now  to  climb  the  gate,  which 
he  could  not  do  without  noise,  and  which  was  in  no  case  an  easy 
feat,  the  plain  boards  of  wbicb  tbe  gate  was  made  being  bigb,  and 
the  top  thickly  studded  with  those  dreadful  crooked  nails,  which 
look  like  alphabets  gone  wrong,  and  do  dreadful  damage  botb  to 
hands  and  clothing. 

Fortunately,  the  moon  had  set,  the  sun  was  not  yet  risen,  and 
the  darkness  favored  him — a darkness  which  every  moment  threat- 
ened to  dissipate.  He  struggled  up  with  as  little  sound  as  possible, 
with  set  teeth  and  a beating  heart,  lacerating  his  hands  cruelly. 
Then,  having  gained  the  top — not  without  some  rents  in  his  scanty 
clothing — he  grasped  the  nail-studded  ridge  and  sprang  down.  Alas ! 
not  to  the  ground,  for  one  of  the  crooked  nails  caught  in  the  back 
part  of  the  wide  trousers,  and,  with  a rending  of  cloth  and  a knock- 
ing of  his  feet  against  the  boards,  he  found  himself  arrested  midway, 
and  suspended  by  the  waist  against  the  gate,  like  a mole  on  a keep- 
er’s paling. 

Had  he  been  caught  in  front,  he  might  have  raised  himself  and 
somehow  torn  himself  free ; but,  being  hooked  thus  in  the  rear,  he 
was  almost  helpless,  and  his  slightest  effort  to  free  himself  brought 
the  heels  of  his  boots  knocking'  loudly  against  the  gate  as  if  to  ob- 
tain admittance,  which  was  the  last  thing  he  wanted.  Meantime, 
the  minutes  flew  on,  the  darkness  was  breaking  fast ; before  long 
the  sun  would  rise,  and  disclose  him  hung  thus  helplessly  on  his 
nail  to  the  earliest  passer-by,  who  would  probably  be  a policeman. 

A beautiful  faint  flush  of  rose-red  suddenly  shot  up  over  the 
eastern  sky,  and  the  brown  shadows  lessened  around  him.  He 
heard  footsteps  echoing  through  the  dewy  stillness,  and  struggled 
with  blind  desperation.  The  rose-red  turned  deep  glowing  orange, 
objects  became  more  and  more  distinct  before  him,  the  street  lamps 
sickened,  a soft  orange  ray  shot  straight  from  the  sea  across  the 
common,  through  the  leaves  of  the  tree  shadowing  the  gate,  on  to 
the  fugitive’s  cheek.  At  the  same  instant  he  heard  the  boom  of  the 
sunrise  gun;  it  was  day. 

The  footsteps  approached  nearer  and  nearer ; on  the  bastion  he 


236 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


heard  the  change  of  watch.  He  felt  that  all  was  lost,  and  yet,  in 
his  mental  tension,  his  chief  consciousness  was  of  the  awful  beauty 
of  the  dawn,  the  dewy  quiet  and  freshness  brooding  over  the  great 
town,  and — strange  contrast! — the  grotesque  absurdity  of  his  situa- 
tion. He  heard  the  lively  twitter  of  the  birds  waking  in  the  trees, 
and  admired  the  soft  radiance  of  the  ruddy  beams  on  the  sleeping 
town;  and  then  something  gave  way,  and  he  found  himself  full 
length  on  the  pavement. 

The  echoing  footsteps  had  as  yet  brought  no  figure  round  the 
corner,  and  Everard  welcomed  the  hard  salute  of  the  paving-stones 
as  the  first  greeting  of  freedom,  and,  quickly  picking  himself  up,  he 
fell  into  the  slow,  slouching  walk  he  had  observed  in  tramps,  and 
moved  on,  adjusting  his  disordered  garments  as  best  he  might.  The 
footsteps  proved  indeed  to  be  those  of  a policeman,  whose  eyes  were 
dazzled  with  the  level  sunbeams  which  he  faced,  and  who  gave  him 
a dissatisfied  but  not  suspicious  glance,  and  passed  on. 

Everard  drew  a deep  breath  and  limped  on,  trying  to  disguise 
the  lameness  of  the  wounded  limb,  which  he  feared  might  betray 
him,  and  thrust  his  torn  hands  into  the  pockets  of  the  trousers 
which  had  so  nearly  ruined  him.  His  surprise  and  joy  were  great 
on  touching  with  his  left  hand  a substance  which  proved  to  be 
bread  and  cheese,  which  he  instantly  devoured,  and  with  his  right 
a few  pence,  and,  what  moved  him  to  tears  of  gratitude  for  Bal- 
four’s thoughtful  kindness,  a short  brier-wood  pipe,  well-seasoned, 
and  doubtless  the  good  fellow’s  own,  a screw  of  cheap  tobacco, 
and  some  matches.  He  had  not  touched  tobacco  for  nine  years. 

A drinking-fountain  supplied  him  with  the  draught  of  water 
which  his  fevered  throat  and  parched  lips  craved ; it  also  enabled 
him  to  wash  off  some  of  the  blood  and  dirt  from  his  torn  hands. 
And  then,  dragging  his  stiff  and  wounded  limb  slowly  along,  and 
eating  his  stale  bread  and  cheese  in  the  sweet  sunshine,  he  made  his 
morning  orisons  in  the  dewy  quiet  of  the  yet  unwakened  town,  and 
felt  a glow  of  intense  gratitude,  which  increased  as  the  food  and 
water  strengthened  him,  and  exercise  warmed  his  chill  and  stifi[ened 
frame. 

He  was  glad  to  see  the  houses  open  one  by  one,  and  the  streets 
begin  to  fill;  he  thought  he  should  attract  less  attention  among 
numbers.  He  passed  groups  of  free  laborers  hurrying  to  the  dock- 
yard to  work,  and  it  gave  him  an  eerie  shudder  to  think  that  some 
of  them,  whose  faces  he  knew,  might  recognize  him.  His  terror 


THE  SILEHCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


237 


increased  when  he  saw  a light  on  a workman’s  face — a face  he 
knew  well,  for  the  man  had  slipped  over  the  side  of  the  dock  one 
morning,  and  was  in  imminent  danger  of  being  jammed  by  some  float- 
ing timber,  when  Everard  had  promptly  sprung  after  him,  regardless 
of  prison  discipline,  and  held  him  up,  for  he  could  not  swim,  till  a 
rope  was  brought,  and  the  two  men  were  hauled  out,  bruised  but 
etherwise  uninjured. 

The  man  stopped:  Everard  went  straight  on,  not  appearing  to 
see  him,  and,  after  a few  seconds,  to  his  dismay,  heard  footsteps 
running  after  him.  He  dared  not  quicken  his  pace,  lest  he  should 
attract  attention,  but  the  food  he  was  eating  stuck  in  his  throat,  and 
his  face  paled.  His  pursuer  gained  his  side,  and,  seizing  his  hand, 
pressed  some  pence  into  it,  saying,  in  a low  tone,  Mum’s  the 
word,  mate!  All  the  ready  I’ve  got.  Simon  Jones,  80,  King 
Street,  for  help.  Better  not  stop.” 

Then  he  turned  and  resumed  his  road,  telling  his  companions 
something  about  a chum  of  his  down  on  his  luck,  and  Everard 
slouched  on  with  a lightened  heart,  and  increased  gratitude  for  the 
pence.  He  had  now  nearly  two  shillings  in  his  pockets,  and  when 
he  had  lighted  Balfour’s  brier- wood,  he  felt  like  a king.  The  last 
time  he  handled  a coin  Tvas  when  he  gave  pence  to  a blind  man, 
sitting  by  the  police  station  at  Oldport,  just  before  his  arrest.  He 
bought  needle  and  thread  to  repair  the  tremendous  fissure  in  the 
unlucky  garments  which  had  played  him  so  ill  a trick,  and  in  two 
hours’  time  found  himself  well  clear  of  the  town  and  suburbs. 
Presently  he  found  a shed  used  for  sheltering  cattle,  but  now  empty. 
This  he  entered,  and,  having  with  some  difficulty  drawn  the  chief 
rents  in  his  clothes  together,  washed  his  wound  in  a trough  placed 
for  some  cattle  to  drink  from,  and  bandaged  that  and  the  worst 
hurts  in  his  hand  with  the  handkerchief  in  which  the  bread  and 
cheese  was  wrapped,  lay  down  on  some  litter  behind  a turnip-cut- 
ting machine,  and  in  a moment  was  fast  asleep,  utterly  oblivious  of 
prisons,  wounds,  and  hunger. 

When  he  awoke,  with  the  vague  consciousness  of  change  which 
heralds  the  first  waking  after  a decisive  event  in  life,  he  felt  a 
strangely  unprotected  sensation  on  looking  up  at  the  blue  sky, 
which  showed  through  the  gaps  in  the  slightly  thatched  roof,  and 
seeing  a green  pasture,  with  cattle  grazing  upon  it,  spread  broad 
and  sunny  before  him  on  the  unwalled  side  of  the  shed,  instead  of 
the  close  white  walls  of  his  cell.  His  sleep  had  been  so  profound 


238 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


and  refreshing  that  it  took  him  some  seconds  to  recall  the  events 
which  preceded  it.  Hunger  and  the  sun  told  him  it  was  late  after- 
noon ; prudence  bid  him  rest  the  wounded  leg,  hut  hunger  coun- 
seled him  to  go  out  and  buy  food  first. 

A short  walk  along  the  dusty  high-road  brought  him  to  a little 
general  shop  at  the  entrance  to  a village,  where  he  bought  a penny 
loaf  and  a little  cheese,  and  was  confounded  by  the  affability  of  the 
mistress  of  the  shop,  a tidy  young  woman,  with  a child  in  her 
arms. 

“Warm  walking,”  she  observed,  as  she  weighed  his  cheese. 

“It  is  warm,”  he  faltered,  with  a strange  embarrassment;  for 
he  had  been  addressed  by  no  woman  since  the  bitter  hour  of  his 
parting  from  Lilian,  nine  years  ago,  and  had  a confused  idea  that 
he  must  be  very  respectful  to  every  one  in  virtue  of  his  low  posi- 
tion. 

“Tramped  far?”  she  added,  wrapping  the  morsel  of  cheese  in 
paper. 

“Ho,  ma’am;  only  from  Portsmouth,”  he  replied;  and,  taking 
his  purchase  with  a “ Thank  you  ” and  a touch  of  his  hat,  he  was 
limping  out,  when  the  woman  called  him  back.  “ Seems  to  me 
you’ve  been  ill,  and  you’ve  seen  better  days  by  the  sound  of  your 
tongue,”  she  said.  “ What  have  you  eat  to-day  ? ” 

“ A good  breakfast  of  bread  and  cheese.” 

“ And  you  just  out  of  hospital,  as  I can  see ! Poor  chap ! and 
your  hand  bad,  too.  Come  into  my  room  here,  do.  Here’s  some 
bacon  and  eggs  my  master  left  from  dinner ; I’ll  warm  it  up  in  a 
minute.  We  shan’t  miss  it,  and  it  will  do  you  a sight  more  good 
than  that  poor  bit  you  bought.  Come  on  in,  do,  the  children  and 
me  is  just  getting  our  teas.” 

Everard’s  instinctive  courtesy  bade  him  accept  this  kind  offer, 
and  he  got  a cup  of  hot  tea  and  a good  meal  of  warm  food,  and, 
what  was  better  than  all,  the  refreshing  sense  of  human  kindness, 
and  departed  with  gratitude,  having  won  golden  opinions  from  his 
liostess  by  his  quiet  civility  and  wise  observations  upon  the  teething 
of  her  infant. 

He  was  grateful  also  for  the  hint  about  the  hospital  and  the  re- 
finement of  his  speech,  and  resolved  to  adopt  the  broad  Hampshire 
drawl,  familiar  to  him  from  babyhood. 

He  trudged  on  with  a better  heart,  bent  chiefly  on  finding  a 
refuge  for  the  night.  As  he  approached  a pretty  cottage,  with  a 


TJIE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


239 


lawn  before  it  and  a garden  behind,  a pony-carriage  passed  him  and 
drew  up  before  the  gate.  It  was  driven  by  a lady  in  mourning, 
who  looted  inquiringly  round  before  alighting.  Everard  ran  up, 
touching  his  hat,  and  held  the  pony’s  head,  while  she  got  out,  en- 
tered the  wicket  gate,  rang  the  bell,  and  was  admited  by  a smart 
maid. 

Here  was  luck  at  the  very  beginning.  The  lady,  whose  face  he 
had  not  observed  in  the  hurry,  but  whose  dress  and  appearance  as 
she  walked  up  to  the  door  he  had  ample  leisure  to  study,  was  good 
for  at  least  a shilling,  and  would  ask  him  no  questions;  he  might 
soon  hope  to  buy  a shirt.  He  patted  the  pony’s  sleek  neck  and 
knocked  off  a fly  or  two,  and  wished  he  knew  of  a high-road  stud- 
ded with  ponies  waiting  to  be  held. 

Then  he  looked  at  the  two  pretty  children  the  lady  had  left  in 
her  carriage,  and  their  sweet  faces  filled  him  with  a sense  of  old 
familiar  home-happiness,  and  his  memory  called  up  a pleasant  sum- 
mer scene  on  the  lawn  at  Malbourne — of  the  twins,  with  little  Ma- 
rion between  them,  pretending  to  chase  the  big  boy,  Harry,  who 
fled  backward  as  they  advanced.  He  remembered  the  twins’  black 
dresses,  which  they  wore  for  one  of  the  brothers  they  lost  in  infancy, 
and  the  scent  of  the  lime-blossom  overhead. 

The  children  in  the  pony-carriage  were  prattling  merrily  to- 
gether, and  making  comments  on  all  they  saw,  himself  not  except- 
ed. He  had  incautiously  taken  off  his  hot  felt  hat  for  a moment  to 
cool  himself  as  he  stood  by  the  pony,  and  this  action  greatly  inter- 
ested the  younger  child,  a blue-eyed  boy. 

“Why  is  all ’oo  hair  cut  off?”  he  asked,  earnestly  regarding 
him.  “ Has  ’oo  been  to  pizzen  ? ” 

“ I have  been  ill,  sir,  and  my  head  was  shaved,”  replied  Everard, 
coloring  with  dismay,  and  quickly  jamming  his  hat  well  on,  while 
the  little  maiden  rebuked  her  brother  for  his  rudeness. 

“He  did  not  mean  to  be  rude,”  she  explained;  “but  we  are 
staying  with  our  grandpapa  in  the  dock-yard,  and  Ernest  sees  the 
convicts  go  by  every  day,  so  we  play  at  convicts,  and  he  cut  his 
little  brother’s  hair  off  to  make  it  seem  more  real.  Wasn’t  it 
naughty  ? ” 

“Very  naughty,”  replied  Everard,  charmed  with  the  music  of 
the  sweet  little  refined  voices,  a music  he  had  not  heard  so  long. 
The  little  girl  reminded  him  of  his  old  pet,  Winnie. 

“Why  didn’t ’oo  die?”  continued  the  boy.  “Mine  uncle  did 


240 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


die.  The  soldiers  put  him  on  the  big  gun,  and  shooted  him 
when  he  was  in  the  ground,  and  the  music  played,  and  mamma 
kied.” 

“Hush,  Ernie!  I am  glad  you  got  well,  poor  man!  ” said  the 
little  maid,  demurely. 

“When  I grow  up,-’  proceeded  the  boy,  “I  sail  he  a admiral, 
like  grandpa,  and  have  sips  and  guns  and  a sword.” 

Everard  congratulated  him  on  his  choice ; hut  his  little  sister  said 
he  had  better  be  a clergyman  like  their  father,  and  make  people  good 
and  preach. 

“I  don’t  want  to  peach,”  said  the  little  man,  pathetically.  “I 
want  to  he  a admiral,  and  have  sips  and  guns  and  swords.” 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  the  lady  came  out,  accompanied  by 
another  lady  in  a widow’s  cap,  who  nodded  to  the  children  and 
smiled,  though  she  had  just  been  weeping,  and  went  in;  and  Everard, 
with  an  intelligence  sharpened  almost  to  agony  by  the  children’s 
conversation,  looked  searchingly  from  under  the  hat  he  had  slouched 
over  his  brows  at  the  dark-haired,  dark -eyed  lady,  as  she  returned 
to  her  carriage,  replacing  the  veil,  which  she  had  raised  during  her 
visit,  evidently  a sorrowful  one,  since  she  too  had  been  shedding 
tears. 

Everard’s  heart  throbbed  almost  to  bursting  as  he  met  the  dark 
eyes,  once  so  full  of  mirth  and  life,  and  observed  the  familiar  car- 
riage of  the  still  slender  figure.  It  was  Marion,  beyond  all  doubt ; 
Marion,  altered  indeed,  but  still  Marion,  the  favorite  sister,  the 
darling  of  his  youth — that  tvaitor'H  wife.,  as  he  muttered  between 
his  fiercely  ground  teeth.  Twice  nine  years  might  have  passed  over 
her  head,  to  judge  by  her  looks.  The  joyous  elasticity  was  gone 
from  her  carriage;  she  was  pale,  and  there  were. lines  of  settled 
care  on  the  once  sparkling  face. 

She  smiled  on  her  children,  a tender,  sweet  smile,  but  with  no 
happiness  in  it,  and  hoped  they  had  been  good,  as  she  got  into  the 
carriage  and  took  the  reins,  not  observing  the  man,  who  stood  by 
the  pony  with  his  breath  coming  gaspingly,  and  his  heart  torn  by 
a medley  of  passionate  emotions.  He  stepped  back  when  she  had 
taken  the  reins  and  whip,  and  touched  his  hat  as  she  drove  on,  and 
then  stopped  on  catching  sight  of  him,  and  drew  out  her  purse, 
whence  she  took  a shilling,  which  she  gave  him.  He  touched  his 
hat  once  more,  and  was  again  stepping  back,  when  she  beckoned 
him  forward  and  addressed  him. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


241 


“ Are  you  out  of  work  ? ” she  asked ; and  he  replied  slowly  in 
the  affirmative. 

“That  is  strange,”  she  continued,  with  a little  severity.  “A 
man  of  your  age  and  strength  ought  to  have  no  difficulty  in  get 
ting  work  just  now.  The  farmers  wantmen,  and  the  dock-yard  is 
taking  in  extra  hands  for  the  extension  works.  I hope  it  is  not 
drink?” 

“ It  is  nine  years  since  I touched  any  drink,”  he  replied,  for  the 
second  time  moved  to  discover  himself  and  ask  for  the  money  im 
dispensible  to  his  safety,  and  for  the  second  time  restrained  by  the  ^ 
thought  that  she  was  the  wife  of  that  traitor,  whose  money  would 
have  been  like  fire  to  his  touch. 

“He  was  ill,  and  they  did  cut  oif  him  hair,”  explained  the  boy, 

“You  think  of  nothing  hut  cutting  hair,  darling,”  said  Marion, 
smiling  the  tender,  sad  smile  again ; “I  am  sorry  for  that,”  she 
added,  addressing  Everard  kindly.  “ And  you  are  looking  for 
work?  Have  you  been  long  out  of  hospital?  Where  are  your 
friends?  What!  no  friends?  This  is  very  sad.  Try  the  dock-yard. 

I will  speak  for  you  to  the  officials.  My  father  is  port-admiral. 
But  I am  going  home  to-morrow ; my  husband  preaches  at  home 
on  Sunday.  Or  stay ! they  want  a man  at  once  to  mow  the  lawn 
at  this  cottage ; their  gardener  is  ill.  Can  you  mow  ? ” 

“ Yes,  ma’am.” 

“ Say  Mrs.  Maitland  recommends  you.  I am  sure  I may  recom- 
mend you.  You  look  honest  and  steady.  I wish  I could  help  you, 
but  I have  so  little  time  now.  Can  you  read?  Yes?  Then  I will 
give  you  a little  paper  my  husband  wrote  specially  for  working- 
men. Out  of  that  packet,  Marion.” 

The  little  girl’s  sweet  gold  curls  drooped  over  the  hag,  which 
she  opened,  and  she  drew  out  a great  bundle  of  tracts,  whence  she 
took  one  and  handed  it  to  Everard  with  the  Maitland  grace  and 
smile.  Her  eyes  were  like  Lilian’s,  and,  looking  ihto  their  sweet 
depths,  Everard  let  the  tract  fall  clumsily  into  his  brown  hand, 
where  one  of  the  lacerations  was  bleeding  afresh,  so  that  the  paper 
was  quickly  stained  with  his  blood. 

“ Oh,  his  poor  hand,  mother ! ” cried  the  child,  pitifully.  “ Mayn’t 
I give  him  my  handkerchief  to  tie  it  up?  ” 

Everard  objected,  saying  any  rag  would  serve  the  purpose ; hut 
Marion  hid  him  take  it,  saying  that  children  should  learn  to  give. 
Then  the  boy  took  a box  half-full  of  chocolate-comfits  and  pressed 


2A2  the  silence  of  bean  Mai-iLaNB, 

it  on  him,  “ To  make  ’oo  hand  well,”  he  said.  Marion  smiled,  and 
the  tears  clouded  Everard’s  eyes,  and  he  remembered  how  the 
twins  used  to  give  away  their  very  garments  to  tramps  unless  closely- 
watched. 

He  stood  long  looking  after  the  pony-carriage  till  the  last  gleam 
of  the  two  golden  heads  vanished,  and  the  mist  over  his  eyes  fell  in 
two  great  drops  on  his  face ; then  he  remembered  his  chance  of 
work  at  the  cottage,  and  walked  up  to  the  door  in  some  trepida- 
tion, and  pulled  the  bell.  He  thought  of  Marion’s  tears  for  Leslie, 
and  wondered  if  she  would  shed  any  if  she  heard  of  his  death. 
Would  she  be  relieved,  as  the  others  doubtless  would,  and  think  it 
best  so?  Did  she  ever  tell  the  children  of  another  uncle,  their 
father’s  friend,  lost  before  they  were  born?  “ Mamma  kied”  when 
the  soldier  uncle  was  borne  with  honor  to  his  grave ; but  she  let 
her  children  play  at  convicts,  and  watch  their  dolorous  daily  pro- 
cession for  pastime. 

The  door  opened.  “We  don’t  want  no  tramps  here!  cried  a 
shrill  voice ; and  a hand  banged  the  door  in  his  face  again,  and  he 
stood  confounded  in  the  porch.  Then  he  stepped  back  and  took  a 
survey  of  the  house,  and  was  much  relieved  to  see  the  young  widow 
at  a writing-table,  just  within  an  open  window  on  the  ground  floor. 

He  went  up  when  he  caught  her  eye.  “ If  you  please,  ma’am, 
I heard  you  wanted  a gardener,”  he  said,  lifting  his  hat. 

“ And  they  banged  the  door  in  your  face,”  she  replied  gently. 
" But  why  did  you  not  go  to  the  back  door?  The  girl  was  natu- 
rally angry.” 

The  back  door  was  another  custom  to  learn.  He  faltered  out  an 
apology,  and  then  proffered  his  request  for  work.  “I  am  not  a 
regular  gardener,  but  T can  mow  and  do  odd  jobs,  and  badly  want 
work,  being  just  out  of  hospital,”  he  said. 

“ I am  only  a lodger,”  replied  the  widow ; “ but  I will  ask.” 
And  she  rang  the  bell  and  summoned  the  landlady,  and,  to  Everard’s 
surprise,  asked  her  as  a favor  to  employ  him.  “You  see  that  photo- 
graph, Mrs.  Brown?  ” she  said,  pointing  to  one  of  an  officer  in  regi- 
mentals on  the  table  before  her.  “ How,  don’t  you  see  a likeness?  ” 

“ To  whom?  ” asked  the  bewildered  woman ; and  Mrs.  Everard 
indicated  Henry  by  a slight  gesture. 

“ You  will  think  me  foolish,  but  I can  not  mistrust  one  so  like — ” 
Here  she  burst  into  tears,  and  Mrs.  Brown  lifted  her  hands  in  dis- 
may. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


243 


“Poor  dear!  her  wits  are  troubled  by  her  loss,”  she  thoughts 
“ That  ragged  tramp  like  the  poor  gentlemen  in  his  smart  uniform 
indeed!  ” 

“ I certainly  see  no  likeness,  ma’am,”  she  replied,  after  a long 
and  depreciating  glance  at  the  tattered  figure  on  the  lawn,  hut  VA 
do  anything  to  pleasure  you ; and  I do  want  the  grass  done,  and 
even  if  the  man  isn’t  honest — ” 

“ I was  to  say  that  Mrs.  Maitland  recommended  me.  I held  her 
pony  just  now,”  interposed  Everard. 

This  ended  the  discussion  ; and  in  a minute  or  two  Everard  foun^l 
himself,  scythe  in  hand,  busily  mowing  the  little  lawn,  to  the  great 
discomfort  of  his  torn  hands,  which  he  had  to  bind  afresh  as  well  as 
he  could.  However,  he  got  through  his  task  in  a couple  of  hour^, 
swept  the  turf  clean,  nailed  up  a creeper  or  two,  and  did  one  or 
two  odd  jobs  about  the  place  for  the  damsel  who  had  dismissed  him 
with  such  scorn,  and  did  not  leave  the  cottage  till  after  dark. 

Whenever  he  paused  in  his  work  and  looked  up,  he  saw  Mrs 
Everard’s  eyes  bent  wistfully  upon  him,  and  knew  that  she  was 
comparing  his  features  with  Leslie’s.  Marion  had  not  recognized 
the  playfellow  and  companion  of  her  youth,  but  this  woman’s  eyes 
were  made  keen-sighted  by  love  and  sorrow,  and  traced  out  the 
ordinary  fraternal  resemblance  beneath  the  disguise  of  the  weather- 
browned,  tattered  vagrant.  His  heart  warmed  to  her  and  to  the 
child,  who  ran  about,  prattling  and  getting  in  the  way  of  his  unsus- 
pected kinsman.  If  Leslie  had  been  alive,  he  felt  that  he  could  have 
asked  him  for  succor. 

That  night  he  passed  on  a half-made  rick  of  hay,  a fragrant, 
warm,  and  luxurious  couch,  sheltered  from  the  sky  by  a sheet  of 
sailcloth  spread  tent  wise  to  keep  off  showers. 

He  thought  it  better  not  to  seek  work  so  near  the  town,  since 
he  had  wherewith  to  get  food  for  the  day,  so  he  set  ofiF  northward, 
and  w^alked  as  far  as  his  wounded  leg  would  let  him,  revolving  many 
schemes  for  escape  in  his  mind  as  he  went  along.  He  took  out  iiis 
tract,  “Plain  Words  for  Plain  Men,”  and  read  it  with  inward  sai  • 
oasm.  It  was  beautifully  written  and  lucidly  expressed;  by  the 
Kev.  Canon  Maitland,  Rector  of  St.  Swithun’s,  at  some  country 
town.  Rural  Dean ; author  of  several  religious  works  set  down  in 
due  order. 

“So  he  is  a canon,  is  he?”  muttered  Everard,  fiercely,  as  he 
limped  along  in  the  burning  sunshine.  “ How  long  does  it  take 


244 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


to  grow  into  an  archbishop,  I wonder?  And  how  much  damned 
hypocrisy  and  lying  and  treachery  does  it  take  to  make  one  ? ” and 
he  tore  the  paper  into  a hundred  fragments  and  dashed  it  into  the 
road-dust,  where  he  stamped  savagely  upon  it.  Then  he  thought  of 
Marion  and  the  sweet  children  who  were  kind  to  the  ragged  va- 
grant, and  his  heart  contracted  with  a wild  pain. 

At  noon  he  rested  in  a wood,  where  a thick  undergrowth  of 
hazels  made  a shelter  from  eyes  as  well  as  from  the  sun.  On  the 
mossed  and  tangled  roots  of  an  ash  tree,  he  sat  at  the  edge  of  the 
hazel  wall,  just  where  the  ground  sloped  down  to  a little  stream, 
which  bickered  over  its  mossy  pebbles  with  a pleasant  sound,  and 
caught  in  its  tiny  wave  cool  lights  glancing  through  the  wind-stirred 
houghs  above  it. 

This  was  better  than  prison,  Everard  thought,  as  he  stretched 
his  weai’y,  hot  limbs  at  length  on  the  dry,  short  grass,  and  gazed 
up  through  the  gently  waving,  sun-steeped  leaves  at  glimpses  of 
blue  sky,  and  listened  to  the  brook’s  low  and  soothing  song  and  the 
whispering  of  the  laughing-  leaves,  and  smelt  the  vague,  delicious 
scent  of  the  woodlands,  and  forgot  the  aching  of  his  wounds,  and 
the  cough  which  had  shaken  him  since  the  chills  of  his  night  in  the 
wet  elm  tree. 

For  the  moment  he  wanted  nothing  more.  It  would  be  sweet, 
after  those  long  years  of  toil  and  prison,  to  wander  thus  for  ever  in 
the  sweet  summer  weather  quite  alone,  his  whole  being  open  to  the 
half-forgotten  influences  of  free  earth  and  sky,  fields  and  streams 
and  woods,  sunrises  and  sunsets  and  solemn  nights  marked  by  the 
quiet  marshaling  of  the  stars,  till  he  was  healed  of  the  grievous 
hurts  of  his  long  agony.  Even  the  hunted  feeling,  the  necessity  for 
hiding  and  being  ever  on  the  alert,  even*  the  danger  that  dogged 
every  step,  was  refreshing  and  stimulating.  This  wild  life  was  full 
of  adventure,  and  roused  his  faculties,  which  the  iron  hand  of  bond- 
age had  benumbed. 

The  simple  meal  he  had  purchased  tasted  deliciously,  the  brook’s 
water  was  like  sparkling  wine  in  comparison  with  that  of  the  prison. 
For  company  his  cell  boasted  at  most  an  occasional  spider;  while 
here  in  the  wood  were  a thousand  friendly  guests,  flying,  creeping, 
swimming,  humming,  peeping  at  him  with  bright,  shy  eyes,  chirp- 
ing, and  even  singing  a fragmentary  song  in.  the  noonday  heat, 

A wren,  beguiled  by  his  long  stillness  and  the  tempting  crumbs 
he  strewed,  hopped  up  within  an  inch  of  his  motionless  hand,  and 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


245 


pecked  pertly  at  the  unusual  dainty.  Everard  remembered  the 
<^\u’en  he  had  seen  on  his  last  day  of  liberty,  the  wren  which  nestled 
on  Lilian’s  muff  and  let  her  touch  him,  while  he  and  Cyril  looked 
on,  and  Cyril  said  that  it  was  Lilian's  guilelessness  which  gave  her 
such  power  over  dumb  creatures.  He  remembered  asking  Cyril 
how  he,  who  was  equally  guileless,  had  lost  this  power,  and  Cyril’s 
agonized  rejoinder,  “ Henry,  I am  a man.” 


CHAPTER  YI. 

After  his  simple  meal,  Everard  spread  his  treasures  on  the  grass 
before  him,  and  eyed  them  lovingly.  It  was  so  long  since  he  had 
possessed  anything  save  his  own  soul,  and  that  he  could  scarcely 
keep  from  the  devil’s  clutch,  that  he  enjoyed  them  more  than  those 
who  possess  their  own  bodies  and  the  labor  of  their  hands,  and  per- 
chance much  more,  can  imagine. 

The  first  treasure  was  the  box  of  comfits,  with  the  gay  picture 
on  the  lid,  which  had  doubtless  charmed  the  innocent  gaze  of  its 
boy  owner.  It  had  contracted  a slight  stain,  which  vexed  him,  but 
he  ate  one  of  the  comfits  slowly  and  luxuriously,  and  it  made  a 
/lorious  dessert.  By  its  side,  carefully  secured  from  flying  away 
by  a pebble,  lay  the  little  handkerchief  with  its  initials,  M.  L.  M. 
He  had  not  used  it  for  his  hand,  but  had  begged  rags  instead. 

It  seemed  sacrilege  to  make  use  of  this  sole  token  of  little  Mar- 
ion’s sweet  nature,  but  it  would  be  a capital  bag  for  the  money  which 
glittered  on  the  grass  before  him,  Marion's  shilling  among  it;  that 
he  resolved  to  change  only  in  dire  need.  Balfour’s  pipe  was  the 
next  treasure,  and  into  that  he  put  the  last  of  the  screw  of  tobacco, 
^nd  smoked  it  with  a happy  heart,  thinking  gratefully  of  the  woman 
'‘^ho  gave  him  meat,  and  of  Leslie’s  widow  and  her  kindness  to  him. 
*he  too  had  brought  him  out  a cup  of  tea  during  his  mowing,  and 
the  little  child  had  carried  him  a great  hunch  of  seed-cake,  and 
lough  these  had  been  welcome  enough,  the  gentle  words  and  looks 
had  far  outweighed  them.  Musing  on  these  things,  he  fell  fast 
^ sleep,  with  the  unguarded  treasures  by  his  side,  and  did  not  wake 
till  late  afternoon,  startled,  but  reassured  to  find  his  possessions  in- 
tact. 


246 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


He  had  hitherto  chosen  field-paths  as  much  as  possible,  always 
keeping  a high-road  in  sight,  and  shaping  his  course  by  the  sun*; 
but  now  it  became  necessary  to  take  to  the  road,  which  was  full  of 
dangers  for  him.  He  met  a policeman  or  two,  each  of  whom  eyed 
him  curiously  and  doubtfully,  and  one  of  whom  accosted  him,  and 
put  him  through  a series  of  questions  as  to  whence  he  came,  whither 
he  went,  and  what  was  his  name  and  occupation;  to  which  Ever- 
ard,  with  inward  tremors,  answered  calmly  enough. 

His  name  was  Stone ; he  was  just  out  of  hospital ; he  was  tramp- 
ing to  his  friends,  who  lived  on  the  other  side  of  London,  and  was 
glad  to  do  odd  jobs  on  the  road,  if  the  policeman  could  put  him  in 
the  way  of  such.  The  policeman,  who  was  not  a very  brilliant  fel- 
low, was  perfectly  satisfied  to  let  him  pass,  though  he  was  actually, 
like  all  the  police  around,  on  the  lookout  for  a man  of  his  height, 
figure,  and  appearance. 

As  he  drew  near  a little  village,  he  saw  a provision- wagon, 
drawn  by  a pair  of  horses,  standing  outside  a public-house ; the 
good  fellow  who  drove  it  was  absent,  and  doubtless  refreshing  him- 
self in  the  cosy  bar  within.  Everard  passed  on  through  the  village, 
and  read  the  milestone  at  the  other  end,  which  recorded  the  num 
ber  of  miles  to  London.  He  had  only  lessened  the  record  by  twelve 
that  day,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  tramp  far  into  the  night,  if  hie 
strength  held  out. 

A great  clatter  suddenly  arose  behind  him,  and,  turning,  he  saw 
the  provision-wagon  pelting  down  the  sloping  village  street  with  no 
one  on  the  box.  He  rushed  back,  putting  up  his  arms  and  shouting ; 
one  or  two  men  followed  his  example,  and  at  the  top  of  the  hill  he 
saw  the  driver,  red-faced  and  breathless,  pursuing  the  horses,  whip 
in  hand.  The  runaways  cantered  on,  and  Everard  threw  himself 
upon  them,  grasping  the  near  horse’s  head,  but  he  was  carried  off 
his  feet  and  dropped ; then  he  rose  and  caught  them  again,  till  he 
succeeded  in  stopping  them,  after  a very  plucky  struggle.  The 
driver  offered  him  a lift,  which  he  gratefully  accepted,  together 
with  some  tobacco,  and  they  jogged  on  till  night,  when  they  reached 
a country  town. 

Passing  the  town,  Everard  walked  on  till  after  midnight,  and 
then  slept  under  a hay-stack.  Early  next  morning  he  went  into  a 
farm-yard,  where  he  saw  a farmer  sending  his  men  off*  to  work,  and 
boldly  asked  for  a job,  and  found  himself,  after  a little  hesitation 
and  questioning,  among  a haymaking  gang,  with  whom  he  worked 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND,  24? 

till  evening,  obtaining  permission  to  sleep  in  a barn  that  night,  and 
the  promise  of  work  on  the  Monday,  that  being  Saturday  night. 

He  was  glad  enough  to  lie  still  that  Sunday  morning,  and  rest  on 
the  bundles  of  straw  which  made  his  couch,  listening  to  the  drowsy 
chime  of  the  church  bells,  and  enjoying  the  luxury  of  a roof  which 
was  not  a prison,  until  increasing  hunger  compelled  him  to  rise  soon 
after  noon.  As  he  passed  through  the  farmyard,  he  saw  a red-armed 
maid  feeding  the  pigs  with  skim  milk  and  cold  potatoes,  on  which 
he  cast  as  wistful  an  eye  as  the  prodigal  did  on  the  swine’s  husks. 

He  was  passing  on,  when  the  farmer’s  wife,  rustling  in  her  Sun- 
day silk,  cams  in  on  her  way  from  church  ; Henry  touched  his  hat 
and  opened  the  gate  for  her,  while  she  asked  him  rather  sharply  why 
he  w^as  hanging  about  the  place.  He  told  her  that,  being  very  weary, 
he  had  but  just  risen,  and  promised  not  to  come  again  till  night. 

“We  are  obliged  to  be  careful  about  harboring  strangers,”  she 
said,  softened  by  his  reply.  “We  never  know  who  they  may  be; 
escaped  convicts  from  Portsmouth  as  often  as  not.  One  convict 
got  loose  only  the  other  day  in  the  thunder-storm,  and  may  be  hid- 
ing about  here,  for  all  we  know.  Where  are  you  going  to  get  din- 
ner? At  the  public-house?  A bad  place.  Maria,  bring  out  the 
pie  that  was  left  yesterday,  and  a mug  of  ale.  And  after  you’ve 
eaten  it,  you  can  be  off.  There’s  church  this  afternoon,  if  you’d  only 
got  clothes  to  go  in.” 

Everard  dined  very  happily  on  the  low  stone  wall  of  the  court- 
yard, though  a meat  pasty  with  good  gravy  is  not  the  most  conven- 
ient dish  to  eat  with  the  fingers.  He  effected  a total  clearance, 
however,  to  the  deep  admiration  of  Maria,  who  watched  to  see  that 
he  did  not  make  away  with  the  dish  and  mug,  and  went  on  his  way 
refreshed. 

He  got  paper,  pen,  and  ink  at  a public-house  that  afternoon,  and 
wrote  a long  letter  to  Lilian,  telling  her  of  his  escape,  and  asking 
her  to  send  a few  pounds  to  him  at  the  post-office  of  that  little  vil- 
lage. 

He  would  have  felt  less  pain  in  applying  for  money  to  Lilian 
than  to  any  of  those  on  whom  he  had  a more  direct  claim,  but  who 
had  so  totally  cast  him  off.  As  it  chanced,  however,  she  had  his 
watch  and  chain,  which  he  had  lent  tp  Mrs.  Maitland  on  the  very 
morning  of  his  arrest,  and  he  only  needed  the  value  of  that  for  his 
immediate  purpose,  which  was  to  get  decent  working  garments,  and, 
as  soon  as  his  hair  was  grown,  to  try  for  a passage  to  America.  It 


248 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


Lilian  cared  to  apply  to  his  family,  and  they  offered  large  aid, 
well.  He  would  not  refuse  help,  save  from  Cyril ; but  he  would 
not  ask  it. 

He  worked  on  for  three  or  four  days,  till  the  farmer  had  got  all 
his  hay  in;  then  he  was  obliged  to  try  elsewhere,  and,  in  trying, 
lost  several  days.  Every  few  days  he  returned  to  Hawkburne  to 
see  if  there  were  any  answer  to  his  letter,  and  every  time  he  got  a 
negative  from  the  postmistress  a keener  disappointment  seized  him. 
He  got  a day’s  work  here  and  an  hour’s  job  there  during  the  next 
fortnight,  but  no  regular  work. 

When  he  got  money,  he  dared  not  spend  it  on  a good  meal ; he 
knew  that  he  must  husband  it  for  the  days  when  there  was  no 
work.  What  with  poor  food  and  open-air  sleeping,  and  the  cough 
and  rheumatism  which  he  got  that  night  in  the  damp  tree,  he  fell 
into  poor  condition,  and,  though  his  hands  were  almost  healed,  and 
the  gunshot- wound  no  longer  caused  him  to  liinp,  people  did  not 
care  to  employ  such  a gaunt,  starved,  hollow-cheeked  man. 

He  had  passed  three  weeks  in  liberty,  and  had  been  several  days 
without  any  work ; for  it  was  an  unfortunate  time.  Haymaking  was 
just  ended,  and  harvest  not  yet  begun ; everybody  was  at  leisure, 
and  no  one  wanted  any  odd  jobs  done.  His  only  chance  was  to  wait 
till  harvest.  But  waiting  was  the  difficulty.  He  looked  at  the  richly 
waving  fields,  mellowing  day  by  day,  and  knew  by  their  tints  that 
it  must  be  a week  or  two  before  the  first  was  ready  for  the  scythe. 
How  close  at  hand  harvest  seemed  to  the  farmers  and  their  busy 
housewives ! Visits  must  be  paid  and  purchases  made  in  the  town 
because  harvest  was  so  near ; but  how  far  off  it  seemed  to  Everard, 
seen  across  a gulf  of  starvation ! The  workhouse  meant  certain 
detection  and  capture ; he  resolved  to  beg. 

He  had  been  two  days  without  food,  and  dragged  his  faint  limbs 
back  to  Hawkburne  late  one  Saturday  afternoon,  to  inquire  once 
more  for  the  letter  and  remittance,  which  surely  could  not  fail  to 
have  arrived  now.  In  the  event  of  being  absent  or  ill,  Lilian  must 
have  got  his  letter  by  this  time,  and  would  certainly  send  a reply  at 
once,  even  if  by  another  hand.  It  was  scarcely  worth  while  to  beg 
on  the  road  back  to  Hawkburne,  help  being  so  near.  He  pulled  him- 
self together,  and  entered  the  little  post-office  with  quite  a jaunty 
air;  but  one  glance  at  the  postmistress  was  enough.  She  shook  her 
head  before  he  had  time  to  speak. 

‘‘  Hotlnng  for  you.  Stone.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


249 


“Are  you  quite  sure?  Have  you  looked?”  he  asked,  turning 
many  shades  paler. 

“Looked?  yes.  And  nice  trouble  I’ve  had  with  you  worrying 
day  after  day  these  three  weeks,  and  much  thanks  I get  for  it,”  she 
replied  snappishly;  for  it  was  Saturday,  and  she  had  just  taken  her 
hands  from  the  scrubbing-pail  for  the  third  time  for  nothing,  and 
had  had  nobody  at  hand  to  scold  all  the  afternoon,  and  the  baby 
had  just  waked  with  a terrific  screech. 

I am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,”  he  returned ; “ but  I cannot 
understand  it.  The  letter  was  so  important.  My  friends  know  how 
desi)erately  hard  up  I am,  and  the  remittance  was  my  own  money.” 

“ I dare  say.  Why  don’t  you  take  and  go  to  your  friends  ? Keep- 
ing me  here  all  day,  and  this  blessed  child  ” — she  had  run  and  fetched 
the  infant,  which  was  screaming  and  kicking  with  fifty-baby  power 
in  her  arms — “ a precious  dear ! and  its  mother  worried  with  tramps 
then.  There,  there!  ” 

“ I thought,  perhaps,”  he  added,  raising  his  voice  above  the  mad- 
dening din,  “ it  might  have  been  overlooked.  Accidents  do  happen, 
ma’am,  however  careful  people  are.  If  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to 
search  again.” 

“I  dare  say,  indeed!  There!  look  yourself  then,  unbelieving 
Jew — there,  there,  mother’s  precious! — and  get  along  out  of  my 
shop  with  you  this  minute!  ” 

“ If  you  would  give  me  a sheet  of  paper  for  the  love  of  Heaven^ 
and  let  me  write  again.” 

“ Go  on  out  of  the  shop,  I tell  ye ! ” cried  the  angry  woman, 
deaf  to  all  his  entreaties. 

He  sat  down  in  the  hedge  by  the  roadside  in  utter  despair.  What 
if  Lilian  were  dead  ? E\7en  then  others  would  read  the  letter.  Had 
she  forgotten  him  ? It  entered  his  heart  like  a sharp  knife.  But 
no ; Lilian  could  not  desert  even  an  insect  in  its  pain.  His  hands, 
In  which  his  face  rested,  were  wet ; he  found  he  had  been  crying  in 
his  disappointment,  and  he  was  not  ashamed.  He  cried  on,  dimly 
conscious  of  bodily  exhaustion  and  illness,  and  after  a time  got  up, 
feeling  that  he  must  do  something ; he  knew  not  what. 

How  that  there  was  no  longer  hope  to  buoy  him  up,  he  found  a 
difficulty  in  walking  in  his  weakness  and  pain.  He  dragged  himself 
to  the  Bectory  and  begged.  The  rector,  a rich  man  and  a generous, 
drove  him  from  the  door.  He  never  encouraged  tramps.  Stone 
fshould  go  to  the  workhouse,  he  said.  He  next  tried  a comfortablo 


250 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


liouse,  in  which  some  wealthy  maiden  ladies  lived,  with  no  better 
success.  The  ladies  and  their  maids  were  frightened  to  death  at 
the  sight  of  him,  and  threatened  to  send  one  John — ^who,  if  he 
were  other  than  a phantom  of  the  ladies’  own  conjuring,  was  truly 
of  a singular  taciturnity,  and  possessed  of  the  power  of  making  him- 
self invisible — for  the  police. 

Everard  wandered  down  the  neat  gravel  path  with  a sick  heart; 
and,  turning  up  a lane,  he  came  upon  a cottage,  where  a poorly 
dressed  woman  stood  nursing  a child  at  the  gate.  He  would  not 
beg  of  her ; but  she,  who  knew  him  by  sight  and  name,  as  having 
helped  at  haymaking  with  her  husband,  accosted  him,  and  asked  if 
he  had  got  work  and  the  remittance  he  expected.  He  shook  his 
head  in  reply,  and  she  asked  when  he  had  last  eaten,  when  he 
again  shook  his  head,  and  smiled  faintly.  She  looked  at  him  with 
a pitiful  expression,  and  bid  him  walk  in  and  rest,  which  he  was 
glad  to  do. 

Then  she  warmed  some  cold  tea  and  cold  potatoes,  and  set  them 
before  him,  apologizing  for  the  poor  fare,  and  observing  that  her 
husband,  whom  Everard  knew  to  be  a drinking  man,  had  not  yet 
come  home  with  the  weekly  wage.  Wolfishly  as  he  had  eyed  the 
good  creature’s  simple  cookery,  Everard  found  that  he  could  not 
finish  what  w^as  set  before  him ; he  was  too  far  gone. 

That  night  he  passed  in  a half-ruined  and  disused  cattle-shed, 
not  far  from  Hawkburne,  and  in  the  morning  he  rose  and  trudged 
along  the  high-road  to  the  next  village,  asking  an  occasional  alms 
when  he  fell  in  with  the  church-going,  but  getting  none.  The  little 
belfry  of  the  village  church,  the  name  of  which  he  never  knew,  had 
a sweet  peal  of  bells.  Their  sweetness  charmed  him  to  tears,  and 
he  thought  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  go  to  church  once  more,  a 
free  man ; so,  after  the  congregation  had  entered  the  little  fane,  he 
dragged  his  fast-failing  limbs  into  the  churchyard,  and  looked  in 
through  the  lower  part  of  the  lozenged-paned  window,  the  top  of 
which  was  open. 

The  interior  of  the  cool  dark  church,  with  its  low,  heavy  stone 
arches,  sculptured  tombs,  and  rustic  worshipers,  ranged  in  orderly 
quiet,  was  a refreshing  spectacle  to  the  outcast’s  eyes,  and,  leaning 
on  the  broad  stone  window-ledge,  he  saw  and  heard  all.  The 
Psalms  were  being  read,  and  his  heart  bounded  strangely  as  he 
heard,  “When  the  Lord  turned  the  captivity  of  Zion,  then  were  we 
like  unto  them  that  dream  ; then  was  our  mouth  filled  with  laughter 


THE  8ILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND,  251 

and  onr  tongue  with  joy.”  Surely  his  captivity  was  to  be  turned 
at  last. 

The  organ  pealed,  and  the  simple  chants  fell  pleasantly  on  his 
ear;  but  his  head  swam  so  that  he  lost  parts  of  the  service,  and 
those  verses  rang  on  through  his  mind.  He  roused  up  during  the 
Second  Lesson,  and  heard,  with  deep  emotion,  the  following  pas- 
sages : “ I was  a stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in  : naked,  and  ye  clothed 
me  : sick  and  in  prison,  and  ye  visited  me ; ” — and  a sensation  of 
awe  and  horror  fell  upon  him  when  he  realized  that  a whole  con- 
gregation of  Christian  worshipers  sat  listening  to  those  words  of 
terrible  and  tender  meaning,  while  he  was  perishing  within  earshot, 
unregarded.  Of  some  of  them  he  had  begged  in  vain ; the  man 
who  was  even  then  reading,  Lord,  when  saw  we  thee  hungry  and 
fed  thee  ? ” was  the  very  man  who  drove  him  hut  yesterday  from  his 
door  sick  and  starving ; of  the  others  he  felt  he  dared  not  beg. 

Then  he  remembered  that  his  brother  George  was,  perhaps,  then 
reading  those  very  words,  “ When  saw  we  thee  in  prison  ? ” and 
Cyril,  the  traitor  Cyril,  in  his  large  town  church,  was  most  proba- 
bly reading  them  too,  reading  them  in  his  voice  of  magnificent 
power  and  pathos  to  an  awed  multitude.  In  every  church  in  the 
land  those  awful  and  beautiful  words  were  being  read,  and  yet 
he  knew  that  no  help  could  come  to  him.  “ Depart  from  me  ye 
cursed,”  burst  forth  the  rector,  with  sudden  sonorous  energy,  and 
Everard  shuddered  and  sent  up  an  agonized  prayer  for  Cyril. 

The  sun  was  hot,  and  he  grew  weary  of  his  place  by  the  ’win- 
dow, and  sat  down  among  the  green  graves  beneath  a shady  tree 
till  the  congregation  came  out.  Then  he  rose,  when  they  were  all 
gone,  and  knocked  at  the  first  cottage  door  he  reached,  having 
learnt  by  this  time  that  the  poor  are  better  almoners  of  hand-to- 
hand  charity  than  the  rich,  because  they  know  better  what  it  is  to 
go  without  a meal.  Some  bread  was  put  in  his  hands,  with  words 
he  was  too  dazed  to  hear;  but  he  found,  on  trying  to  eat  the  bread, 
that  he  could  not  swallow  it. 

All  that  day  he  lay  in  a field,  and  at  evening  rose  with  diflSculty, 
and  asked  for  a night’s  shelter;  for  the  dews  were  chilly,  and  he 
knew  that  he  was  now  too  ill  to  bear  exposure.  It  was  refused. 

He  wandered  a little  further  on,  and  sank  on  the  bare  earth  in  a 
dort  of  stupor,  from  which  he  was  roused  by  the  chilly  dawning  of 
the  next  day.  He  was  on  a hank  beneath  a large  lime  tree,  by  the 
side  of  a brook,  which  sang  in  quiet  undertones,  like  the  brook  in 


252 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


the  wood  where  he  dined  so  happily  when  first  at  liberty.  He 
could  not  move. 

At  first  it  seemed  terrible  to  face  death  thus,  outcast  and  alone, 
and  all  the  scenes  of  his  life  hashed  past  him,  and  the  strange  an- 
guish which  falls  on  us  at  the  thought  of  dying  in  the  midst  of  sor- 
row, before  any  hope  has  been  fulfilled,  seized  upon  him  with  vult- 
ure beak. 

Did  his  mother  bear  him  with  bitter  pains  for  this,  to  die  in  his 
prime  of  want  and  hardship  ? All  the  high  hopes  and  rich  promise 
of  his  youth  smote  upon  him  with  keen  anguish,  and  Cyril’s  one 
message  to  him  in  prison,  “He  shall  make  thy  righteousness  clear 
as  the  light,  and  thine  innocence  as  the  noonday,”  shot  across  his 
brain  in  letters  of  fire. 

Some  feeling  of  family  pride  revived  within  him,  and  he  thought 
how  much  harder  it  was  for  an  Everard  to  perish  by  the  way  than 
for  one  born  by  the  wayside  and  nurtured  in  want.  He  thought  of 
Leslie.  Did  he  lie  alone  thus  face  to  face  with  death,  when  he  got 
the  wound  which  in  the  end  proved  fatal  ? How  different  that  dy- 
ing on  the  field  of  honor  must  have  been!  And  yet,  how  small, 
how  phantom-like  everything  earthly  seemed  in  that  hour  of  tre- 
m^endous  reality  I Did  not  one  event  happen  to  all. 

The  green  fields,  dewy  bright  in  the  rising  sun,  reeled  before 
him,  and  he  summoned  his  failing  forces  and  applied  them  to  prayer 
for  all  who  had  been  dear  to  him. 

He  was  now  no  more  alone;  the  sweet  and  awful  consciousness 
of  a Divine  Presence  came  upon  his  calmed  soul.  Lilian’s  beautiful 
voice  seemed  to  speak  passages  full  of  mighty  hope  from  the  Script- 
ures; he  heard  the  brook’s  low  murmur  and  the  light  whisper  of 
the  leaves  above  his  head.  He  seemed  to  be  resting  on  some  kind 
arm,  which  was  now  Lilian’s,  now  an  angel’s,  and  the  rose-fiushed 
morning  sky  at  which  he  gazed  opened  and  disclosed  indistinct  forms 
moving  in  light.  He  saw  his  mother’s  face,  Leslie’s,  the  baby  Mait- 
lands,  so  long  dead  ; majestic  presences,  spiritual  beings,  souls  of 
the  noble  dead  hovered  near  in  august  silence,  through  which  a 
mighty  music  of  unutterable  joy  swept  in  melodious  thunders. 

The  vision  vanished  in  a keen  chill,  and  he  woke  to  find  rain 
pattering  on  his  upturned  face.  The  fresh  shower  renewed  his 
sinking  energies,  and  cleared  his  brain  ; some  animal  instinct  told 
him  day  was  declining.  He  knew  that  the  bitterness  of  death  was 
past.  It  was  sweet  to  feel  the  soft  rushing  of  the  cool  rain  on  his 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


253 


face ; it  seemed  a pleasant  thing  to  die  thus,  to  cease  from  painful 
being,  and  mingle  with  the  kindly  elements  and  dissolve  into  the 
gracious  components  of  the  great  universe. 

The  brook  sang  on,  and  the  leaves  rustled  lovingly  together,  and 
a little  wren  suddenly  let  its  strong  heart  of  song  loose  upon  the  air ; 
such  a volume  of  melody  from  such  a tiny  breast ! He  remembered 
what  Cyril  said  one  day  of  the  wren’s  song — “ If  the  mere  joy  of  ani- 
mal existence  evokes  such  a passion  of  rapture,  what  must  be  the 
fullness  of  bliss  called  forth  by  the  consciousness  of  pure  spiritual 
life,  unfettered  and  unclogged  by  sin  or  sense  ? ” 

It  did  not  seem  strange  that  Cyril  was  sitting  there  by  his  side, 
discoursing  in  the  old  bright  way,  with  the  old  familiar  kindliness 
and  something  more  than  the  old  radiance  of  youth  in  the  blue 
eyes,  whose  light  was  blended  confusingly  with  that  of  the  broad 
heaven  above,  whence  the  clouds  were  rapidly  sweeping.  Cyril 
spoke  of  the  broken  Sevres  vase,  laughing  at  the  childish  terrors  of 
that  by-gone  transgression.  “You  got  the  blame,  old  fellow,  and 
the  punishment,  but  I got  the  suftering,”  he  said.  “ Yes,”  he 
added,  in  the  thoughtfulness  that  was  wont  to  descend  upon  the 
twdns  in  their  lightest  moments  ; “ the  sorrow  of  sorrows  is  sin.” 
Then  Cyril  seemed  to  fade,  and  only  Lilian  remained,  unseen, 
supporting  him  till  he  lost  all  consciousness. 

“It  is  a case  of  want  and  exposure,”  said  the  doctor,  bending 
over  the  lifeless  form  beneath  the  tree,  and  applying  brandy  to  the 
closed  lips.  “ Stand  back,  if  you  please.  I wonder  that  you  pic- 
nickers let  the  man  lie  alone  here  all  these  hours ! ” 

“We  thought  he  was  drunk,”  replied  a young  man,  with  an  air 
of  compunction.  “We  passed  him  at  noon,  and  did  not  pass  again 
till  five,  when  he  seemed  to  be  asleep.  Tramps  so  often  sleep  half 
tlie  day.” 

“ And  Smith  saw  him  at  nine,  and  he  was  begging  in  the  village 
yesterday,  and  must  have  lain  here  all  last  night,  and  it  is  eight 
o’clock  now.  What  do  you  think  of  that,  inspector?  ” 

“ I think,”  replied  the  police  inspector,  who  had  chanced  to  be 
driving  by  in  his  dog-cart,  with  a couple  of  stout  constables,  just 
after  the  village  doctor’s  arrival,  “ that  this  is  the  very  chap  we’ve 
been  wanting  this  three  weeks.  There  will  be  a gunshot-wound  in 
the  leg.  A gentleman  of  your  profession,  doctor,  if  this  is  my  man. 
Not  dead,  is  he?  What,  more  brandy  ? and  not  a sign  of  life  yet.” 


254: 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


“ Nothing  in  the  pockets  hut  this,”  said  a constable,  showing  the 
empty  coinfit-hox,  the  handkerchief  marked  “ M.  L.  M.,”  and  the 
piece  of  bread  given  on  the  Sunday.  “ Ah!  and  his  name  is  Stone, 
and  he’s  been  after  letters  at  Hawkburne  this  three  weeks,  has  he, 
sir  ? And  begged  at  the  Eectory,  did  he?  ” 

“We  had  our  eye  on  that  post-office,  hut  never  chanced  to  light 
on  the  man,”  added  the  inspector.  “ Quick  with  those  blankets, 
there!  Here,  doctor,  isn’t  this  a gunshot-wound?  He’ll  be  all 
right  at  the  station-house.  He  can  go  in  a cart,  I suppose?  Our 
own  surgeon  will  look  to  him  there.  If  you  don’t  mind  the  trouble 
of  going  with  him,  doctor,  nobody  will  hinder  you.  Do  you  think 
he’ll  die  on  the  way  ? ” 

A week  or  two  later,  there  was  a cheerful  family  group  in  Can- 
on Maitland’s  drawing-room,  the  windows  of  which  stood  wide  to 
a little  lawn  sloping  down  to  a stream,  beyond  which  lay  the  little 
country  town,  half  veiled  in  light  smoke-mist.  His  twin  sister  was 
there,  with  children  playing  on  her  knees,  and  his  pretty  wife  sat  at 
a tea-table  and  talked  to  him  on  various  homely  themes. 

“ And  why  do  you  think,  Marion,”  asked  Lilian,  after  a thought- 
ful pause,  during  which,  she  had  not  been  listening  to  them,  “ that 
the  man  who  held  your  pony  at  Burnham  was  the  escaped  convict  ? ” 
“Lilian,”  interposed  the  canon,  quickly,  “how  often  have  I 
begged  you  to  spare  me  these  topics?  You  know  I can  not  hear 
that  word  without  pain.” 

“ Perhaps,”  said  Lilian,  “I  should  hear  the  word  with  less  pain 
myself,  if  I did  not  know  that  Henry  was  at  Portsmouth.” 

Cyril’s  face  blanched,  and  he  was  aboqt  to  reply,  when  the  door 
burst  open,  and  Keppel  Everard  rushed  in. 

“By  George,  Marion!  ” he  cried,  “that  runaway  convict  whoso 
adventures  we  were  reading  yesterday,  turns  out  to  be  that  poor 
devil  Henry ! ” 

“I  knew  it!  ” cried  Marion,  passionately.  “ Oh,  Lilian,  I might 
have  saved  him,  and  I did  not ! He  was  so  like  him,  but  so  worn 
and  old.  Oh,  Lilian,  his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  the  children ! And 
Amy  saw  the  likeness  to  Leslie.  How  little  she  guessed ! ” 

“ How  do  you  know  this,  Keppel  ? ” asked  Cyril,  in  his  deepest 
tones,  while  Marion  sobbed  convulsively,  and  Lilian,  marble  pale, 
clasped  the  child  which  was  leaning  upon  her  more  tightly,  and 
listened. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


255 


“ The  governor  of  the  prison  told  my  father.  Henry  was  at 
death’s  door  from  exhaustion  and  hardship.  He  wanted  instruc- 
tions about  burying  him,  but  the  poor  fellow  got  better,  unluckily 
— for  all  parties.” 

“ For  heaven’s  sake,  calm  yourself,  Marion ! ” said  Cyril,  who 
was  himself  trembling  exceedingly.  “ The  children  are  frightenedo 
By  the  way,  Lilian,  I never  gave  you  the  letter  Lennie  brought 
this  morning.  It  got  mislaid  somehow  among  Winnie’s,  and  ought 
to  have  been  delivered  weeks  ago.” 

Lilian  took  the  letter  with  an  abstracted  air,  and  was  about  to 
put  it  in  her  pocket,  when  the  postmark,  Hawkburne,  caught  her 
eye,  and  a closer  examination  showed  her  that  the  handwriting, 
distorted  and  irregular  as  a wounded  hand  had  made  it,  yet  faintly 
resembled  Henry’s.  She  tore  it  open,  read  it,  and  fainted  for  the 
first  and  last  time  in  her  life. 


ir 


PART  III. 


“ I charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition : 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ; how  can  man  then, 

The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  ’t  ? 

Love  thyself  last : cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee.^^ 


CHAPTER  I. 

One  bright  summer  morning,  in  the  year  1881,  a man  was  travel* 
ing  through  the  heart  of  Devonshire  to  Exeter  in  a first-class  car- 
riage, the  only  other  occupant  of  which  was  a comfortable-looking 
clergyman,  who  was  evidently  able  to  digest  the  Thirty-nine  Arti- 
cles and  a good  daily  dinner  with  equal  facility,  and  whose  parish, 
no  doubt,  showed  a happy  sterility  of  evil-livers  and  dissenters,  with 
an  equally  happy  fertility  of  tithes.  This  clergyman’s  kindly,  fresh- 
complexioned  face  assumed  an  expression  of  singular  concern  and 
perplexity  whenever  he  looked,  as  he  did  furtively  from  time  to  time 
under  cover  of  his  new'-spaper,  at  his  fellow-traveler.  The  latter 
was  a gaunt,  haggard  man,  with  a worn  and  wasted  face,  which  was 
partially  covered  by  a beard,  the  even  and  sharply  cut  ends  of  which 
showed  that  it  had  only  recently  been  allowed  to  grow,  and  was 
lighted  by  dark,  deeply  sunken  eyes  of  a kindly  but  singularly  wist- 
ful expression ; the  beard  as  well  as  the  hair  was  grizzled. 

The  man  looked  about  fifty  or  five  and  fifty;  his  shoulders  were 
bent,  and  he  walked  with  a stiff  and  labored  gait.  His  manner  was 
shy  and  uneasy  ; he  wore  gloves,  which  he  never  removed ; and  his 
dress  consisted  of  a badly  made  and  ill-fitting  suit  of  gray.  The 
clergyman  recognized  this  suit  of  gray  as  that  which  is  supplied  to 
discharged  prisoners  and  soldiers. 

It  was  scarcely  possible  to  recognize,  in  this  bowed  and  broken 
man  in  the  ill-fitting  gray  suit,  the  handsome,  light-hearted  young 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


257 


fellow  who  traveled  down  to  Oldport  with  another  clergyman  only 
eighteen  years  before,  full  of  health  and  hope  and  intellect,  and  talk- 
ing gaily  of  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth.  And  yet,  if  you  looked 
carefully  at  him,  there  was  the  same  direct  and  clear  gaze  in  the 
candid  brown  eyes,  the  same  sweetness  about  the  lips,  the  same 
look  of  moral  strength  in  the  whole  face. 

But  there  was  no  longer  the  air  of  intellectual  power  or  the  con= 
fident  calm  of  a man  whose  fate  is  in  his  own  hands,  and  who  means 
to  mold  it  to  noble  purposes.  Eighteen  years  of  intense  suffering, 
heroically  endured,  had  marked  the  face  with  an  unspeakable  no- 
bility and  gentleness — an  expression  which  deeply  impressed  and 
mystified  the  clergyman  opposite  him,  who  knew  perfectly  that  the 
owner  of  this  sublime  face  must  have  left  Dartmoor  but  an  hour  or 
two  before. 

Yes,  Everard  was  free  at  last.  The  day  for  which  he  had  sighed 
through  all  that  furnace  of  long  years  had  actually  dawned.  He 
might  come  and  go  beneath  the  broad  heaven  above  England  as  he 
listed.  The  fever  of  this  thought  had  kept  him  awake  through  the 
long  hours  of  the  last  night  in.  prison ; and  yet,  when  he  turned  bis 
back  on  the  grim  buildings  of  Dartmoor,  he  could  scarcely  see  them 
for  tears. 

He  left  friends  behind  those  stern  walls — friends  who  would  feel 
his  departure  as  an  irreparable  loss,  friends  for  whom  his  heart  bled. 
In  the  wide  world  into  which  he  was  thrust  alone,  after  a lifetime 
spent  in  unlearning  its  ways,  he  had  but  one  friend ; one  who  had 
seen  him  last  in  the  flower  of  youth  and  intellect,  and  who,  in  spite 
of  her  long-tried  and  unswerving  devotion,  might  shrink  from  the 
wreck  he  now  was,  ruined  in  health,  shattered  in  nerves,  and  with 
blasted  prospects. 

These  thoughts  made  him  turn  a wistful  gaze  upon  the  purple 
slopes  of  Dartmoor  whenever  a turn  of  the  line  brought  it  into  sight. 
The  rapture  he  had  felt  in  freedom  on  his  temporary  escape,  nine 
years  before,  could  never  more  throb  so  strongly  within  him.  Those 
later  years  had  wrought  more  cruel  effect  upon  him  ; the  privations 
of  that  brief  spell  of  freedom — which,  nevertheless,  was  in  his  mem- 
ory like  the  very  breath  of  heaven — and  the  illness  which  followed 
them,  had  more  surely  sapped  his  strength.  His  captivity  had 
been  more  rigorous  after  that ; he  had  worn  irons.  The  routine 
had  now  more  effectually  numbed  his  faculties,  so  that  at  last  it 
had  grown  to  be  a necessity  ; and  now  that  he  found  himself  thrown 


258 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


on  his  own  resources,  and  dependent  on  no  will  but  his  own,  he  wa^ 
like  a lost  child,  half  frightened  and  bewildered  by  the  pettiest  re- 
sponsibilities of  life. 

He  dared  not  encourage  the  good  clergyman’s  kindly  attempts 
at  general  conversation,  and  the  paper  he  lent  him  was  as  if  written 
in  an  unknown  tongue.  Who  could  understand  the  Times  of  to-day, 
if  the  events  of  the  last  twenty  years  were  a blank  to  him  ? Empires 
had  disappeared  from  Europe  since  Everard’s  incarceration ; fresh 
empires  had  risen ; English  society  and  English  public  opinion  had 
undergone  a total  change ; English  politics  had  been  radically  ah 
tered  ; more  than  one  revolution  had  been  accomplished ; old  land- 
marks were  swept  away ; the  world  had  made  mighty  strides  on- 
ward, for  better  or  for  worse;  and  of  all  this  he  knew  nothing. 

At  Exeter  he  felt  more  at  ease.  Leaving  the  station  on  foot, 
he  went  into  the  streets  of  the  ancient  city,  not  heeding  the  cries 
of  cabmen  and  hotel  touts,  not  dreaming  that  he  could  be  addressed 
as  Sir,”  who  had  so  long  been  only  Ho.  62,  and  pleasantly  excited 
to  find  himself  moving  unhindered  among  crowds  of  free  fellow- 
creatures.  The  cathedral  bells  were  pealing  merrily  for  some  festi- 
val; soldiers  were  marching  with  bright  music  through  the  streets, 
which  were  thronged  with  women  and  children  in  light  'summer 
dresses.  How  beautiful  they  all  looked,  after  the  ghastly  figures  of 
the  convicts  in  their  hideous  garb  of  uniform  shame ! and  how  de- 
licious was  the  free  air  and  sense  of  motion  at  will ! 

He  entered  the  first  tailor’s  shop,  and  got  a suit  of  ready-made 
clothes,  which  he  put  on  there  and  then,  not  unmindful  of  a curious 
smile  on  the  shopman’s  features  at  sight  of  the  gray  suit.  Here 
also  he  purchased  a suitable  outfit  for  a few  weeks ; then  he  got  a 
portmanteau,  and,  feeling  a different  being  in  a dark  and  well-made 
suit,  he  got  himself  some  boots  at  a fashionable  bootmaker’s ; and 
then  went  to  some  dining-rooms  and  ate  his  first  free  meal  with 
rising  spirits,  and  was  no  longer  startled  when  the  waiter  addressed 
him  respectfully,  and  waited  on  his  behests  with  “Yes,  sir”  and 
“Ho,  sir.” 

When  he  returned  to  the  station  and  took  his  seat  in  a third- 
class  carriage  to  London,  he  looked  what  he  was,  a gentleman, 
save  for  his  hands,  which  he  kept  carefully  gloved.  He  had  many 
traveling  companions  now,  having  chosen  to  go  first-class  in  the 
gray  suit  in  the  hope  of  being  alone  and  unnoticed,  and  to  the  con- 
versation of  these  he  listened  with  a kind  of  awe ; for  none  of 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


259 


them  were  criminals— all  were  free,  and  they  spoke  of  things  and 
moved  in  a life  of  which  he  had  been  long  ignorant. 

He  had  purchased  some  periodicals  with  a strange  joy  in  the 
novelty  and  freedom  of  the  act,  but  he  could  not  bring  his  attentiou 
to  bear  upon  them;  his  mind  was  too  full.  lie  could  not  even 
listen  to  the  conversation  of  his  fellow -travelers,  which  had  at  first 
such  a strange  interest  for  him. 

He  gazed  out  upon  the  swift-rolling  summer  landscape,  and  re- 
joiced in  the  roses  which  starred  the  passing  gardens  in  June 
luxury,  and  wondered  if  it  were  really  he.  His  captivity  was 
turned,  and  he  was  indeed  like  unto  them  that  dream.  It  was  so 
sweet,  and  yet  so  terribly  sad.  Not  only  were  youth  and  strength 
and  hope  gone,  but  the  very  world  from  which  he  had  been  so 
suddenly  torn  was  almost  swept  away.  Leslie  was  dead,  and 
Marion  and  Mrs.  Maitland  and  his  father,  the  stout  old  admiral, 
and  they  had  never  known  that  he  w^as  innocent.  Did  they  know 
now,  he  wondered,  and  could  they  bear  the  thought  of  the  other’s 
guilt,  or  were  aU  things  earthly  to  them  as  if  they  had  never  been? 
And  of  those  who  remained,  how  much  of  the  old  selves  he  remem- 
bered still  lived  ? The  long  years  had  had  no  power  to  touch 
Lilian’s  loyalty,  but  what  had  they  done  to  herself? 

The  train  rushed  clattering  into  a large  station  and  stopped. 
Some  of  his  fellow-travelers  got  out,  disinterring  their  buried 
parcels  and  wraps  with  cheerful  hustle.  A young  lady  begged 
his  pardon  for  incommoding  him — how  strange  the  slight  courtesy 
seemed ! — others  wished  him  good  morning,  and  he  returned  the 
salutation  with  a dim  feeling  of  transgression ; he  could  not  yet 
realize  that  he  might  speak  without  leave. 

A girl  with  a sad  face  offered  roses  at  the  windows,  and  bright- 
ened when  he  bought  some.  He  had  touched  no  flowers  since  he 
gave  those  to  Lilian  on  the  fatal  New  Year’s  Eve.  Those  were 
virgin-white,  which  should  have  been  red  with  blood;  these  were 
w'arm  crimson  and  gold. 

It  was  dark  night  when  they  reached  London.  Everard  scarce- 
ly knew  what  to  do  in  tlie  tumult  and  din  of  a great  metropolitan 
station.  At  last  he  found  himself  and  his  brand  new  portmanteau 
in  a hansom,  driving  toward  a hotel  he  mentioned,  half  afraid  it 
might  have  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

At  the  time  of  his  conviction  the  law  which  forfeited  the  prop- 
erty of  felons  was  still  in  force,  so  that  he  would  have  been  penni- 


260 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND. 


less  bad  not  the  admiral  left  him  an  equal  share  with  his  other  chil- 
dren at  his  death,  which  occurred  some  five  years  back.  This  little 
property — which  was,  of  course,  in  the  hands  of  trustees  — had 
been  accumulating  during  those  years,  and  would  now  afford  him 
a moderate  income,  wdiich  he  still  hoped  to  increase  by  the  exercisd 
of  his  profession.  He  was  to  see  the  late  admiral’s  man  of  business 
on  the  morrow,  and  when  that  was  done  he  scarcely  knew  where 
to  turn. 

He  could  not  go  to  Lilian  with  the  prison  taint  still  upon  him ; 
the  thought  of  that  was  unendurable.  She  did  not  know  the  exact 
date  at  which  he  was  to  be  set  at  liberty,  so  he  decided  to  spend 
a week  or  two  in  getting  accustomed  to  a free  life,  in  ridding  him- 
self of  some  of  his  enormous  ignorance  of  everyday  affairs,  and  in 
purging  his  memory  of  prison  degradations.  Then  he  had  messages 
to  deliver  to  the  friends  of  his  fellow-prisoners,  and  set  about  that 
at  once. 

London  oppressed  him  with  its  immensity  and  tumult  and  the 
awful  sense  of  loneliness  which  it  produced ; so  after  a few  days  he 
went  into  the  country,  resolving  to  stop  wherever  fancy  prompted. 
During  those  few  days  he  had  looked  into  much  new  literature, 
with  an  appalling  sense  of  being  left  far  behind  his  age.  The  medi- 
cal and  scientific  journals  gave  him  the  keenest  stab ; science  had 
made  such  mighty  strides  without  his  aid,  and  the  theory,  the  dar- 
ling theory  which  was  to  effect  a revolution  in  medical  science,  had 
already  been  formed  by  another  and  accepted  by  the  world. 

Perhjlps  country  air  would  restore  his  shattered  nerves.  There 
is  no  nurse  or  healer  like  Nature ; to  her  kind  arms  he  would  flee 
for  refuge.  But  along  that  very  line  he  had  traveled  down  to 
Malbourne  with  Cyril  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  and  the  memory  of 
it  tore  his  heart.  ‘‘  An  ascetic  is  a rake  turned  monk,”  he  had  told 
Cyril,  little  dreaming  what  a home-thrust  he  was  giving.  And 
here  was  the  massive  cathedral,  and  here  the  towers  of  Belminster, 
a place  associated  with  scenes  so  agonizing.  Yet  he  remembered 
his  jest  to  Cyril  about  the  bishop. 

He  got  out  at  Belminster,  attracted  by  the  strange  fascination 
which  belongs  to  scenes  of  past  suffering,  and,  leaving  his  things 
at  the  station,  strolled  leisurely  down  the  steep  street,  and  looked 
with  infinite  compassion  at  the  gaol  in  which  he  had  endured  such 
agony.  The  place  was  not  altered  ; people  might  have  been  stroll- 
ing about  just  the  same  while  his  torture  was  going  on. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


261 


There  was  the  lovely  old  Gothic  cross,  standing  a solitary  relic 
of  dead  centuries,  and  wondering  silently  at  the  feverish  present; 
there  w^ere  the  old  houses,  jutting  out  upon  pillars  over  the  street 
and  hiding  the  dark  shops ; there,  finally,  was  the  hoary  cathedral, 
girdled  about  by  its  lofty  trees  and  its  green,  quiet  close,  into  which 
he  strolled  with  a feeling  of  sweet  refreshment.  His  eyes  rested 
lovingly  on  the  pleasant  scene,  so  full  of  old-world  associations,  so 
suggestive  of  all  things  soothing  and  sweet ; a place  in  which  one 
must  think  of  past  things  and  of  things  eternal,  and  yet  which  is 
linked  so  harmoniously  with  things  passing  and  the  little  life  of  to- 
day. 

He  strolled  into  the  gray,  vast,  echoing  interior,  and,  sitting 
down  opposite  the  open  door,  lost  himself  in  a pleasant  dream.  How 
sweet  it  would  be  to  live  there  under  the  great  minster’s  shadow, 
wdthin  sound  of  the  holy  bell ; to  lead  a gentle,  holy,  uneventful 
life,  pacing  daily  that  rich  green  turf,  looking  on  those  great  trees 
and  red-roofed  houses,  and  on  the  pillared  cloister  yonder,  and  on 
the  light-springing  arches  of  the  Deanery,  as  one  passed  to  and  fro, 
lowly,  perhaps,  but  calm  and  happy ! Something  light  fluttered 
between  the  slender  black  pillars  of  the  Deanery  entrance.  It  was 
a young  lady  in  a gay  summer  dress,  who  passed  out  and  walked 
along  by  the  old  cloister  with  an  indescribable  grace  in  the  carriage 
of  her  slim  figure. 

• The  sight  of  her  youth  and  beauty  called  up  pleasant  visions  of 
sweet  and  tranquil  home  life — life  rich  with  love  and  duty,  and 
adorned  with  culture  and  refinement ; and  a little  sigh  escaped  him 
in  spite  of  himself,  when  he  thought  of  the  possibilities  of  life,  and 
remembered  w^hat  he  had  missed  in  his  long  agony.  People  began 
to  stream  in  slowly  by  twos  and  threes,  and  he  observed  that  the 
bells  were  chiming  languidly ; visitors  with  guide-books  went  out 
or  moved  choirward;  a dark,  thin  young  clergyman,  with  a rapt 
face  and  ascetic  lips,  ascended  the  choir-steps,  and  recalled  the  Cyril 
of  twenty  years  ago  with  strange  vividness ; the  great  organ  began 
to  boom ; the  choristers  paced  slowly  in,  heavenly  boy  faces  show- 
ing above  their  white  robes,  or  men  with  worn  and  rugged  faces; 
the  bright  silk  hoods  of  the  clergy  gleamed  as  they  passed ; even- 
song began. 

Everard  did  not  dream  of  entering  the  choir ; the  thought  of 
mingling  with  others  on  equal  terms  even  in  an  act  of  worship  was 
as  yet  far  from  him.  He  felt  himself  a dweller  on  the  outskirts  of 


262 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


humanity;  it  was  as  yet  a great  boon  to  be  allowed  merely  to 
look  on  without  rebuke.  So  the  solemn  words  and  heavenly 
music  came  echoing  beneath  the  dim  arches  brokenly  to  his  far- 
off  ears,  and  their  peaceful  spell  drew  him  gradually  nearer  to  the 
choir. 

At  last  the  anthem  began,  and  his  soul  melted  within  him  be- 
neath the  passion  of  the  full- voiced  strain,  and  he  stole  silently  up 
the  matted  steps  with  bowed  head,  his  consciousness  merged  in  the 
meaning  which  the  mellow  voices  strove  with  conflicting  endeavor 
to  make  clear.  The  glorious  tumult  increased  till  it  dissolved  in  a 
triumph  of  harmony;  and  then  above  it,  like  a lonely  sea-bird  soar- 
ing over  a sea  of  stormy,  foam-tipped  billows,  there  rose  a single 
boy’s  voice,  so  sweet  and  pure,  so  full  of  unconscious  and  unuttera- 
ble pathos,  that  Everard  trembled  as  he  heard  it,  and  stole  on  to 
the  very  gates  of  the  sanctuary  to  listen.  Higher  and  higher  the 
solitary  boy-voice  rose,  till  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  be  finally  lost  in 
some  clear  heaven  of  ineffable  sweetness ; there  it  hovered  and 
paused,  and  then  descended,  rising  and  falling  again  upon  the  pin- 
ions of  strong  melody,  till  it  fell  at  length  half  wearied  into  the  sea 
of  deep  and  mellow  harmony. 

The  listener  outside  the  sanctuary  gate  gazed  in  in  a tumult  of 
unspeakable  feeling,  not  knowing  what  memories  and  hopes  and 
longings  the  beautiful  boy’s  voice  awakened  within  him,  but  vaguely 
conscious  that  he  had  stood  thus  before  in  some  far-off  forgotten  • 
time,  seeing  all  his  lost  youth  flash  by  him,  and  realizing  the  spell 
of  Lilian’s  long-missed  presence  once  more. 

The  anthem  died  away,  and  Everard  came  to  himself,  and 
thought  how  unfitted  he  was  for  life  with  a nervous  system  so  sen- 
sitive, so  liable  to  escape  control,  and  he  remembered  the  scorn 
which  once  mingled  with  his  pity  for  such  weaklings.  He  scorned 
no  man  now. 

The  chorister  with  the  beautiful  voice  had  a face  of  equal  charm 
— a face  from  which  Everard  could  scarcely  avert  his  eyes.  The 
other  boys  looked  roguish  enough,  though  they  were  very  well  be- 
haved— pattern  choristers,  indeed  ; but  this  lad’s  face  and  demeanor 
had  a singular  pathos;  and  his  eyes,  instead  of  being  bent,  as  the 
others  were,  on  the  desk,  had  a forward  or  upward  gaze  during  his 
singing.  He  evidently  knew  ail  his  music  by  heart. 

When  the  service  was  over,  and  the  worshipers  had  left  the 
building,  Everard  strolled  down  the  nave,  looking  at  different  mona- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


263 


mcnts,  and  spoke  to  the  verger,  whose  offer  to  guide  him  he  had 
refused. 

“I  know  the  cathedral  well,”  he  said,  ‘‘but  I have  not  seen  it 
for  many  years.” 

“ You  may  have  traveled  and  seen  a sight  of  cathedrals  since, 
but  you  won’t  see  many  to  beat  Belminster,”  said  the  verger, 
proudly. 

“Not  many;  and  it  is  in  better  order  than  in  former  times. 
And  what  a very  well-behaved  choir ! I suppose  your  dean  is  a 
good  man.” 

“ Yes,  sir  ; the  dean  is  very  particular  about  the  cathedral.  He 
takes  an  interest  in  every  creature  about  it,  too.  We  all  have  to 
mind  our  and  g^’s,  I assure  you,  and  we’d  do  anything  for  him. 
He’s  that  taking  in  his  ways,  to  be  sure.” 

“ And  w'ho  is  your  dean?  ” Asked  Everard,  indifferently,  as  he 
was  turning  away. 

“ Bless  my  soul  alive ! ” exclaimed  the  verger ; “ don’t  you  know 
who  the  Dean  of  Belminster  is?  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  where  ham  you 
been  not  to  have  heard  of  Dean  Maitland?  ” 

Everard  was  glad  he  had  turned  away,  and  he  did  not  reply  for 
a ^Qoment. 

“No  doubt  I appear  very  ignorant,”  he  said  at  length,  with  a 
little  smile,  “but  I have  not  been  near  Belminster  for  this  twenty 
years.” 

“But  not  to  know  Dean  Maitland!  Why,  all  the  world  knows 
the  great  dean.  ' The  hooks  he  has  written,  the  things  he’s  done ! 
Nothing  can  be  done  without  Dean  Maitland.  He’s  the  greatest 
preacher  in  the  Church  of  England.  They’re  going  to  make  him 
Bishop  of  Warham  soon.  Why,  bless  you,  sir,  when  Dean  Mait- 
land preaches  in  Westminster  Abbey,  extra  police  have  to  he  put 
on,  and  people  wait  outside  for  hours.  To  think  you  never  heard 
of  Dean  Maitland ! ” and  the  verger  looked  up  and  down  Ever- 
ard, scanning  him  as  if  he  were  some  strange  natural  phenome- 
non. 

“The  greatest  preacher?”  repeated  Everard,  his  heart  throb- 
bing painfully.  “ What  is  his  Christian  name  ? ” 

“ The  greatest,  and  the  bishop.  Bishop  Oliver,  the  Bishop  of 
Belminster,  is  the  next,  and  some  think  he  runs  the  dean  close,” 
replied  the  verger,  with  satisfaction ; “ Christian  name,  Cyril.  You 
should  hear  him  preach,  sir,  you  should  indeed.  People  come  down 


264 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


to  Belminster  on  purpose.  He  preaches  to-morrow  in  the  nave.  A 
series  of  evening  lectures  to  working-men,  and  the  dean  takes  his 
turn  to-morrow.” 

“I  will  come,”  said  Everard;  and  he  moved  away,  and  stood 
gazing  abstractedly  at  the  ancient  font,  consumed  with  the  strangest 
excitement. 

‘‘It  is  very  old,  sir,”  said  a sweet  voice  behind  him;  and,  turn- 
ing, he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  chorister  who  sang  the 
solo. 

He  was  a slight,  delicate  lad,  some  ten  years  of  age,  with  dark 
hair  waved  over  his  pure  white  brow,  and  beautiful  blue  eyes  gaz- 
ing with  a strange  pathos  from  the  well-featured  face;  and  the  sin- 
gular beauty  of  his  voice  was  enhanced  by  the  purity  of  his  accent, 
which  was  that  of  a gentleman. 

“Old  indeed,”  returnee!  Everard.  “Old  Oliver  couldn’t  batter 
that ; it  is  too  solid.” 

You  know,  of  course,  that  he  smashed  the  west  window,”  said 
the  lad,  pointing  to  the  great  window,  with  its  singular -pattern, 
formed  by  piecing  the  broken  fragments  of  richly  colored  glass 
together. 

Everard  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  moved  on,  the  boy  g^c- 
companying  him,  and  discussing  the  different  objects  of  interest 
with  singular  intelligence. 

“ You  do  not  tire  of  the  cathedral,  though  you  sing  in  it  daily?  ” 
asked  Everard. 

“Ho,  I never  tire  of  it,”  he  replied,  gazing  dreamily  round; 
“it  is  such  a beautiful  place.  I love  the  vastness  of  it.  I spend 
hours  here ; it  is  my  home.” 

He  had  insensibly  stolen  his  small  hand  into  Everard’s,  who  was 
thrilled  deeply  by  the  warm,  soft  grasp,  and  he  now  led  him  on  to 
show  him  an  ancient  tomb. 

“ Have  you  been  a chorister  long?  ” Everard  asked. 

“Only  since  we  came  to  Belminster,  three  years  ago;  then  I 
was  the  smallest  boy  in  the  choir.”  He  did  not  go  to  school,  he 
said,  in  reply  to  a query;  he  had  a tutor.  “My  name  is  Mait- 
land,” he  added ; “ Everard  Maitland.” 

Everard’s  hand  tightened  convulsively  over  the  child’s  slight 
fingers,  and^  he  gazed  searchingly  in  his  face,  which  betrayed  no 
surprise  at  the  intent  gaze. 

“ Ah!  the  dean’s  son,”  he  said,  after  a long  pause.  ^ 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


265 


“Yes,”  he  replied,  with  a proud  little  air;  “the  dean’s  son. 
Do  you  know  my  father?  Have  you  heard  him  preach?  ” 

“Hot  of  late.” 

“He  is  a very  good  father,”  said  the  hoy;  “ and  I am  his  only 
son.  People  think  him  great,  but  he  is  better  than  great ; he  is 
good.  We  have  no  mother.  What  time  is  it?”  he  added,  as 
Everard  drew  out  his  watch  to  conceal  the  tumult  that  was  stirring 
within  him. 

Everard  silently  turned  the  dial  toward  him  for  answer. 

“ I can  hear  it  tick,”  said  the  child,  regretfully;  “ but  I can  not 
see  it.” 

“Hot  see  it ! ” exclaimed  Everard,  in  surprise. 

■ “Ho,  sir;  I am  blind.  You  are  surprised?”  he  added,  after  a 
pause;  “people  always  are.  I was  born  blind,  and  I have  been 
trained  to  be  as  independent  as  possible.  I show  it  more  in  a 
strange  place.  I know  every  inch  of  the  cathedral,  I love  it  so.” 

“ Blind ! ” echoed  Everard,  at  last ; “ and  you  are  his  only  son  ? ” 

“ His  only  son.  It  is  a terrible  grief  to  him.  .It  is  little  to  me ; 
my  life  is  very  happy,  and  my  father  is  so  very  kind.  And  they 
let  me  sing  in  the  choir  and  play  the  organ.  Few  boys  have  such 
pleasures  as  I.” 

“You  bear  your  affliction  manfully,”  said  Everard,  laying  his 
hand  tenderly  on  the  child’s  head  and  gazing  thoughtfully  on  him 
for  a space.  “ But  how  can  you  enjoy  the  cathedral  if  you  can  not 
see  its  beauty  ? ” 

“I  can  feel  it.  I have  heard  its  different  parts  so  often  de- 
scribed, and  I know  its  history  so  well.  Then  I can  hear  by  the 
echoes  how  vast  it  is,  and  how  lofty,  and  the  way  in  which  the 
music  rolls  about  it  describes  its  shape.  I could  feel  you  standing 
at  the  font  just  now,  and  I know  when  you  are  looking  at  me.  I 
knew  that  you  were  a good  man  the  moment  you  spoke.  Your 
voice  is  familiar  to  me.  You  see,  we  blind  people  have  other 
senses  to  make  up,  sir.” 

The  child  smiled  as  he  said  this,  a smile  that  touched  Everard 
to  his  heart’s  core.  Cyril  and  Lilian  smiled  thus,  but  the  child’s 
smile  had  a sweetness  beyond  theirs,  one  which  is  only  born  of 
suffering. 

They  had  now  reached  the  open  door,  thrgugh  which  entered 
the  reflected  warmth  of  the  sunshine,  which  the  blind  boy  said  he 
could  feel,  and  here  they  parted. 


266 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


“Good-by,  sir,”  said  the  boy,  pressing  his  hand,  and  directing 
upon  him  the  strange  unaware  gaze  of  the  blind.  “We  have  had 
a charming  talk,”  he  added,  in  Cyril’s  own  fascinating  manner. 

“ Good-by,  dear  little  fellow,  and  God  bless  you,”  replied 
Everard,  returning  the  pressure  of  the  delicate  hand.  “ Stay,” 
he  added,  as  the-  child  stepped  out  into  the  sunshine.  “ Had  you 
not  a brother  named  Ernest?  ” 

“Oh  yes,”  he  answered;  “they  say  he  was  such  a strong, 
healthy  boy.  He  died  when  I was  a baby.  My  poor  father  has 
lost  many  sons  and  daughters,  and  I can  never  be  any  tiling  but  a 
care  to  him.  He  has  only  my  sister  to  comfort  him.  Good-by, 
sir ; I shall  be  late  ; ” and,  taking  off  his  hat  once  more,  he  sprang 
down  the  steps  and  across  the  pavement,  to  an  iron  railing  which 
here  fenced  the  turf.  Everard  watched  him  as  he  vaulted  it  easily, 
aud  dashed,  as  seeing  boys  dash,  headlong  across  the  green,  making 
a slight  turn  to  avoid  a collision  with  a solemn  clergyman,  who  lifted 
his  hat  to  him,  and  then  flying  straight  under  the  slender  arches  of 
the  Deanery  entrance,  where  he  vanished  from  sight. 

“Poor  young  gentleman!  ” said  the  verger,  who  was  standing 
behind  Everard,  chinking  a shilling  the  child  had  given  him.  “ Noth- 
ing pleases  him  so  much  as  showing  the  cathedral  to  strangers,  and 
keeping  his  blindness  from  them.  Many  and  many  a one  he’s  took 
in.  But  he  always  gives  a verger  a shilling  after  taking  a party 
round ; he  wouldn’t  take  a man’s  bread  out  of  his  mouth.  It’s  a 
sore  trial  to  the  dean,  sir,  you  may  depend  upon  it.  It  was  trouble 
to  his  mother  caused  it,  they  say.  Just  before  he  was  born  she 
went  through  a deal  in  her  mind,  and  was  never  the  same  again. 
And  that  affected  the  boy’s  nerves,  specially  the  optic  nerves  and 
he  was  born  blind.  Pity,  isn’t  it?  We  shall  miss  Master  Everard 
when  the  dean  is  Bishop  of  Warham.” 

“No  doubt,”  said  Everard,  moving  abstractedly  away,  his  eyes 
riveted  on  the  Deanery  ; “ no  doubt.” 

Lilian  'had  gradually  ceased  to  mention  Cyril  in  her  letters; 
indeed,  since  Marion’s  death  she  had  not  mentioned  him  at  all,  and 
Everard  had  never  during  the  whole  of  his  imprisonment  named  the 
name  of  the  man  he  had  so  loved,  and  for  whom  he  bad  suffered  so 
cruelly.  And  now  he  found  him  the  great  Dean  Maitland,  too  great 
to  be  merely  the  Dean  of  Belminster;  he  belonged  apparently  to 
the  higher  order  ot  deans,  like  Dean  Swift  and  Dean  Stanley,  and 
was,  moreover.  Bishop-elect  of  Warham.  And  Warham  was  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


267 


greatest  see  in  England ; its  bishops  bad  ranked  as  princes  in  olden 
days.  There  was  but  one  greater  dignity  in  the  Church — that  of 
archbishop.  Everard  paused  opposite  the  Deanery,  and  looked  long 
upon  it,  while  a singular  conflict  of  feelings  raged  within  him. 

On  this  very  spot,  eighteen  years  ago,  Cyril  himself  had  stood, 
an  obscure  curate,  while  Everard  was  undergoing  his  terrible  ordeal 
before  the  judge,  and  had  reflected,  in  spite  of  the  tumult  within 
him,  upon  the  advantages  of  being  a dean. 

He  had  looked  with  keen  outward  observation,  as  Everard  was 
looking  now,  on  the  majestic  pile  of  the  gray  cathedral,  rising  above 
the  sedate  red  roofs  and  gables  of  the  quiet  and  dignified  close  ; on 
the  same  elms  and  limes,  leafless  then  in  the  March  sunshine,  and 
had  heard  the  rooks  cawing  in  their  lofty  circles  overhead,  with  the 
same  suggestions  of  boyhood  and  home  and  the  breezy  downs  about 
Malbourne ; there  he  had  stood,  though  Everard  did  not  know  it, 
and  fought  an  inward  battle  in  which  his  soul’s  best  powers  were 
overthrown. 

Some  such  battle  raged  within  Everard  now.  He  thought  of 
his  long  agony,  and  the  crimes  which  caused  it ; he  thought  of  his 
heart’s  best  friendship,  and  the  treachery  which  betrayed  it;  he 
repeated  to  himself  with  various  intonations  of  scorn  and  indigna- 
tion, “ Dean  Maitland,  Bishop  of  Warham ; ” he  thought  of  the  guile- 
less child  with  his  angel  voice  and  his  life-long  affliction  ; he  thought 
of  his  own  broken  health  and  ruined  life ; he  thought  of  Lilian 
wasting  her  youth  in  loneliness,  and  asked  himself  how  he  could 
forgive  the  traitor  for  whose  crime  he  had  suflFered — the  traitor  who 
dressed  in  fine  linen  and  dwelt  in  palaces  among  the  greatest  in  the 
land,  while  the  betrayed  wore  his  heart  out  in  a prison,  clothed  in 
the  garb  of  shame,  and  herded  with  the  scum  and  off-scouring  of 
vice.  He  could  not  bear  these  distracting  thoughts  ; he  turned  with 
a gesture  of  fierce  indignation,  and,  striding  hurriedly  along  the 
close,  passed  beneath  the  Gothic  gateway,  in  whose  angle  was 
niched  a tiny  church,  passed  along,  amid  a crowd  of  happy  school- 
boys, in  front  of  the  college,  and  did  not  breathe  freely  till  he  found 
himself  once  more  in  the  bustling  High  Street. 


268 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Deanery  drawing-room  looked  out  upon  a soft  stretch  of 
lawn,  partly  shaded  by  some  magnificent  trees,  and  bounded  by  a 
delicious  old  garden  with  warm  red  walls,  on  which  fruit  was  ripen- 
ing in  the  July  sun.  The  rnullioned  casements,  with  their  diamond 
panes,  stood  open  to  let  in  the  sunny  air  laden  with  the  scent  of 
carnations,  roses,  and  mignonette.  All  that  refined  taste,  backed 
by  a long  purse,  could  do  toward  making  a room  beautiful  and  sug- 
gestive of  art  and  culture,  as  well  as  perfectly  comfortable,  had 
been  done  to  this  room,  which,  as  everybody  knew,  had  been  ar- 
ranged by  the  dean  and  his  twin  sister.  Nor  did  the  apartment 
lack  the  crowning  grace  of  a charming  mistress ; the  dean’s  only 
daughter,  a girl  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  but  apparently  much  older. 

She  sat,  becomingly  dressed  in  some  light,  fresh  material,  near 
an  open  casement  by  a low  table,  on  which  a tea-service  was  placed, 
and  was  talking  in  the  liquid  Maitland  voice  to  several  ladies  and 
three  young  and  seemingly  unmarried  men,  two  of  whom  were 
clergymen,  while  the  third,  the  evident  object  of  the  black  coats’ 
dislike,  which  he  as  evidently  returned,  had  something  about  him 
which  proclaimed  the  dashing  hussar.  He  answered  to  the  name  of 
Lord  Arthur. 

“ Benson,”  said  Miss  Maitland,  addressing  a servant,  “ tell  the 
dean  that  I insist  upon  his  coming  in  to  tea.  Say  who  are  here. 
It  would  serve  him  right.  Lady  Louisa,”  she  added,  ‘‘  if  I got  you  to 
go  and  rout  him  out  of  his  den.” 

‘‘My  dear  child,  the  mere  suggestion  terrifies  me!  ” returned 
the  lady.  “Imagine  the  audacity  of  rushing  in  upon  the  dean, 
when  he  might  be  making  one  of  his  lovely  sermons  or  his  clever 
books!” 

“By  the  way,”  interposed  one  of  the  curates,  “what  an  appre- 
ciative notice  there  is  in  this  week’s  Guardian  the  dean’s  ‘Epistle 
to  the  Romans ! ’ Did  you  see  it.  Miss  Maitland  ? ” 

“ Oh,  you  don’t  mean  to  say  he  is  as  clever  as  all  that,  to  make 
a new  Epistle  to  the  Romans ! ” exclaimed  a very  young  lady,  whose 
simplicity  was  greatly  admired. 

The  door  now  opened,  and  the  dean  appeared  among  his  guests, 
making  each  feel  that  he  or  she  was  the  special  object  of  his  welcom- 
ing words  and  smiles.  After  this  greeting,  his  glance  ran  anxiously 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


269 


round  the  room  and  across  the  garden  in  search  of  something  that 
he  missed.  ‘‘  Where  is  Everard?  ” he  then  asked. 

“Probably  in  the  cathedral,”  replied  Marion.  “lie  has  not  re- 
turned from  even-song.” 

“ You  were  not  at  even-song,  Mr.  Dean,”  said  a lady.  “It  is  a 
pity,  for  Everard  excelled  himself  in  the  anthem.” 

“He  did  indeed,”  chimed  in  the  young  curate  with  the  rapt 
face.  “ I never  heard  anything  truer  or  sw^eeter  than  that  high  0 
of  his.” 

“Poor  dear  child!  his  voice  is  a great  consolation  to  him,” 
sighed  the  dean,  toying  comfortably  with  his  tea-spoon. 

“I  wonder  if  that  voice  will  last?”  asked  Lord  Arthur.  “Of 
course  I mean,  will  it  change  into  a good  man’s  voice?  ” 

“Probably,  with  health  and  good  management.  So  many  good 
boy-trebles  are  strained  by  overwork,  and  crack  hopelessly  at  the 
change,”  replied  the  father. 

“ How,  Lady  Louisa,  begin  your  siege,”  said  the  young  hostess. 
“If  you  don’t  do  everything  she  asks  you,  papa,  you  will  get  no 
more  tea,  remember.” 

“ This  is  alarming,”  smiled  the  dean.  “ Lady  Louisa,  I appeal  to 
your  generosity  not  to  exact  too  much  from  a helpless  victim.” 

“Pile  on  the  agony.  Aunt  Louisa,”  cried  Lord  Arthur.  “‘Yjb 
victis!  ’ remember.” 

“Your  nephew’s  war-cry.  The  ruthless  soldier  flings  his  sword 
into  the  scale,”  said  the  dean. 

“Yes,  and  I’d  fling  myself  after  it,  if  you  would  only  come  to 
Dewhurst  next  week,”  added  the  hussar.  “You’ve  never  seen  the 
old  place,  dean,  and  my  father  is  dying  to  have  you  there,  and  so  is 
my  mother.” 

“And  your  aunt,”  added  Lady  Louisa,  laughing;  “not  to  men- 
tion yourself.”  And  she  proffered  her  request,  in  the  form  of  an 
invitation  from  her  sister-in-law  to  the  dean  and  his  daughter  to 
'dine  and  sleep  at  the  ancient,  historic,  ducal  castle  one  day  in  the 
following  week. 

“There,  papa,”  said  Marion,  with  pretty  imperiousness;  “all 
you  have  to  do  is  to  name  the  day.” 

“Alas!  ” sighed  her  father,  “next  week  is  quite  fllled  up.” 

“ Oh,  but  you  must  come  next  week,”  urged.  Lady  Louisa.  “Wo 
shall  be  alone  then,  and  able  to  enjoy  you.  Indeed,  the  duchess 
will  never  forgive  you  if  you  do  not  come.” 


270 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND: 


“To  incur  the  duchess’s  displeasure  grieves  me  to  the  heart,” 
replied  the  dean. 

“Also  mine,”  added  the  lady,  whom  some  people  held  to  he 
well  disposed  to  wed  the  widowed  ecclesiastic,  she  being  about  five 
and  thirty  and  of  majestic  presence,  if  not  surprisingly  well  favored. 

“That,”  he  returned,  “would  reduce  me  to  absolute  despair; 
yet  I am  firm.  I am  tied  to  the  stake.” 

It  was  while  the  dean  was  being  thus  implored,  coaxed,  and 
threatened,  and  while  one  or  two  people  who  would  have  been 
ready  to  depart  this  life  in  peace  after  an  invitation  to  the  great 
duke’s  show-place  were  listening  with  unspeakable  envy,  that  a serv- 
ant stole  up  to  the  dean  and  appeared  anxious  to  attract  his  atten- 
tion* 

“Well,  Benson?”  he  said  at  length,  having  disposed  of  the 
question  of  the  visit. 

“A  young  gentleman,  sir,”  said  the  man,  in  a low  tone — “re- 
fuses to  give  his  name ; says  it  is  private  business  of  importance.” 

“ Why  did  you  not  say  I was  engaged?  ” 

“I  did,  sir.  He  said  his  business  was  urgent.” 

“ Let  him  wait  in  the  library.” 

“ I wonder  how  they  make  bishops,  Mr.  Dean  ? ” asked  Lady 
Lousia,  mischievously.  “Do  they  send  messengers  post-haste  to 
offer  miters  upon  their  knees  just  when  people  are  having  tea  com- 
fortably ? ” 

The  dean  smiled  a pleased  smile,  and  observed  that  he  had  hither- 
to had  no  experience  of  being  made  a bishop ; and  a lady  present  re- 
marked that  a certain  paper  had  mentioned  his  acceptance  of  the 
see  of  Warham  as  a fact,  and  further  ventured  to  ask  if  the  journal 
in  question  was  right. 

The  dean  smiled  again.  “A  man  who  declines  such  an  office 
when  duly  chosen  by  the  rightful  authorities,  incurs  a tremendous 
responsibility,”  he  said,  with  unusual  gravity ; and  the  rumor  imme- 
diately went  forth  that  he  had  accepted. 

He  then  withdrew  with  an  apology.  “Perhaps  we  had  better 
not  keep  the  miter  waiting  too  long.  Lady  Lousia,”  he  observed  to 
that  lady  with  his  peculiar  smile,  as  he  went  out. 

He  reflected,  as  he  left  the  room,  that  he  might  do  worse  than 
marry  Lady  Louisa  ; also  that  Lord  Arthur,  who,  though  a younger 
son,  was  rich  enough  to  marry  as  he  pleased,  undoubtedly  meant 
business  with  regard  to  Marion.  Lady  Lousia  was  amiable,  accom- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


271 


plished,  not  dowerless,  pleasing,  and  of  a suitable  age.  What  conld 
a man  want  more?  The  Bishop  of  Warham  and  Lady  Louisa  Mait- 
land sounded  well.  And  yet  the  Bishop  of  Warham,  leading  a life 
of  widowed  loneliness  because  his  conscience  put  the  narrowest 
meaning  on  the  phrase  “ husband  of  one  wife,”  might  have  more 
power  over  men’s  minds.  But  then.  Dean  Maitland  belonged  to 
that  class  of  men  to  whom  single  blessedness  is  a curse,  and  his  six 
years’  wifelessness  had  weighed  sorely  upon  him,  and  he  had  but 
two  children,  one  hopelessly  afflicted. 

Reaching  his  study,  he  rang  the  bell.  “Where  is  Mr.  Ober- 
mann?  ” he  asked  of  the  servant,  meaning  his  son’s  tutor. 

“ Out,  sir.” 

“ And  Miss  Mackenzie  ? ” — Marion’s  governess  and  companion. 

“Out,  sir.  Her  Girls’  Friendly  Meeting  day.” 

“Which  that  young  rascal,  Arthur,  well  knew,”  thought  the 
dean.  Then  he  ordered  that  a maid  should  search  the  cathedral 
and  close  for  the  blind  boy,  keeping  him  in  sight,  but  not  accosting 
him,  unless  he  should  break  his  bounds,  which  were  the  cathedral 
precincts,  so  careful  was  the  dean  of  his  only  son.  “ Show  the 
young  man  in  here,  Benson,”  he  said,  in  conclusion. 

It  never  struck  any  visitor,  much  less  this  unsophisticated  youth, 
that  the  dean’s  easy  pose  in  his  library  chair  by  his  writing-table, 
which  was  so  placed  that  the  light  from  the  lattice  fell  sideways 
from  behind  him,  leaving  him  in  the  complete  shadow  of  the  rather 
dark  wainscoted  room,  yet  fully  illuminating  his  books  and  papers 
and  the  chair  fronting  him,  in  which  he  motioned  his  unknown 
guest  to  take  a seat,  was  a calculated  one ; but  it  certainly  had  un- 
common advantages,  since  not  a quiver  of  the  penitent’s  lip,  not  a 
line  of  his  face  or  a movement  of  his  body,  was  lost,  while  the 
priest’s  countenance  was  but  dimly  seen  in  the  shade. 

Since  the  production  of  his  popular  devotional  work,  “The 
Secret  Penitent,”  Dean  Maitland’s  ghostly  counsel  had  been  sought 
by  men  and  women  from  far  and  near,  chiefly  from  far,  and  chiefly, 
though  the  gentle  reader  will  probably  doubt  this  assertion,  by 
men.  These  men  were  desirous  of  remaining  unknown,  and  some- 
times gave  names  which  they  said  were  assumed,  sometimes  none 
at  all. 

Very  strange  tales  had  been  told  in  that  pleasant  little  study,  in 
the  sight  of  that  flnely  carved  ebony  and  ivory  crucifix  and  those 
beautiful  proof  engravings  of  celebrated  religious  pictures,  holy 
18 


272 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


families,  ascensions,  conspicuously  among  them,  a copy  of  the  Geth» 
semane  which  hung  in  the  study  at  Malbourne.  Cyril  imagined 
that  the  nameless  youth  was  another  of  these  penitents,  and  re- 
ceived him  with  a certain  tenderness  in  his  stately  manner,  which 
he  knew  was  well  calculated  to  unlock  the  sealed  recesses  of  the 
heart. 

It  was  a tall,  handsome,  well-huilt  youth,  whose  features  and 
expression  kindled  a vague  disquiet  in  the  dean’s  breast,  such  an 
irrational  mental  discomfort  as  imaginative  people  experience  at 
times,  and  instinctively  fear  to  analyze. 

He  entered  the  room  with  a confident  step  and  bearing,  looking 
boldly  forward  with  an  almost  arrogant  self-assertion  in  his  gaze, 
which  w^as  quickly  subdued  by  the  dignified  courtesy  of  Dean  Mait- 
land— a man  with  whom,  despite  his  unvarying  politeness,  which 
was  almost  courtliness,  no  man  ever  dare  take  a liberty.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  youth,  entering  with  his  bristles  all  on  end,  had  expected 
hostility  or  at  least  repression,  and,  receiving  a suave  cordiality 
instead,  was  for  the  moment  confounded.  He  felt  himself  envel- 
oped in  a blue  radiance  from  the  dean’s  strangely  beautiful  and 
powerful  eyes,  which  searched  him,  measured  him,  explored  him 
to  his  remotest  recesses,  and  reduced  all  his  pretensions  to  nothing. 

A man  sitting  at  a table,  with  the  implements  of  his  daily  occu- 
pation before  him,  has  a great  advantage  over  one  who  sits  unoc- 
cupied in  a chair  in  the  full  light,  for  the  express  purpose  of  talk- 
ing. This  the  dean  knew,  and  he  never  committed  the  error  of 
walking  into  a room  to  begin  an  interview  with  a person  he  in- 
tended to  influence,  though  no  man  knew  better  than  he  how  to 
walk  into  a room. 

Sitting  at  ease  in  his  wooden  chair,  with  the  open  lattice,  pict- 
uresquely tangled  with  invading  roses  and  ivy,  behind  him ; with 
his  melodious  voice  and  refined  accent,  new  to  his  listener’s  ears ; 
with  his  graceful  limbs  showing  to  advantage  in  his  black  dress 
with  shorts  and  gaiters;  and  with  his  well-formed  hands  in  har- 
mony with  his  severely  cut  features,  which,  however,  were  only 
dimly  seen,  he  cast  a spell  over  his  visitor ; he  suggested,  further, 
that  harmonious  blending  of  aristocratic  pietj,  which  is  peculiar  to 
the  English  dean,  and  perhaps  to  the  French  abb4  before  the  Revo- 
lution, and  which  had  so  fascinated  his  own  youthful  gaze.  He 
made  a picture  in  the  oak  wainscoted  room,  with  its  latticed  case- 
ments, ecclesiastic  adornments  and  suggestions  of  honored  antiquity, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


2T3 


which  quite  overpowered  the  unaccustomed  gaze  of  the  joungei' 
man,  who  never  forgot  it. 

The  dean’s  practised  eye  soon  saw  that  his  visitor  was  not  a 
gentleman,  though  near  being  one.  He  was  ill  dressed  in  a light, 
badly  made  suit,  which  hung  loosely  upon  him,  and  yet  became 
him.  A crimson  scarf  was  fastened  carelessly  about  his  neck  by  a 
dashing  pin,  and  that  also  well  became  his  dark  and  handsome 
features.  His  strong  hands  were  brown  and  large,  but  well-formed. 
He  used  his  straw  hat  to  emphasize  what  he  said.  He  was  full- 
grown,  but  so  young  that  his  face  was  smooth,  save  for  the  slight 
indication  of  a mustache,  “ He  is  quite  honest,”  the  dean  thought, 

“ I come  from  America,”  he  began  abruptly,  in  a mellow  and 
powerful  voice. 

“You  come  from  a country  of  v»^hich  a man  maybe  proud,” 
replied  the  dean,  in  the  tone  which  made  men  love  him ; “and  you 
kindly  honor  me  with  a visit  ? ” 

“ In  plain  words,  sir,  what  do  I want  ? ” broke  in  the  youth. 
“ I want  to  be  a gentleman.” 

“ A most  laudable  ambition,”  returned  the  other,  smiling. 

“ I want  to  go  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  Cambridge  I would 
prefer,  because  you  were  there.” 

He  acknowledged  this  compliment  with  a slight  bow. 

“ My  father  was  a gentleman,”  continued  the  lad,  in  his  jerky 
and  headlong  fashion ; “ but  my  mother  was  not.” 

“ A man’s  mother,”  returned  the  dean,  in  his  plaintive  voice, 
“ is  more  usually  a lady.” 

“ Oh,  you  are  laughing  at  me!  But  I am  English-born,  and  was 
brought  up  a British  subject  in  the  Dominion.  My  name,”  he  con- 
tinued with  some  agitation,  “is  Benjamin  Lee.” 

He  looked  earnestly  on  the  face  in  the  shadowed  corner,  but  he 
did  not  see  the  sudden  and  quickly  subdued  quiver  in  the  dean't 
lip.  He  was  aware,  however,  that  a change  had  taken  place  in  his 
face  and  demeanor. 

“A  very  good  name,”  he  returned,  in  the  same  dulcet  tones; 
“ A very  usual  English  name.” 

“I  was  born  at  Malbourne,”  the  young  man  went  on,  with  an 
increased  sonorousness  of  voice  and  intensity  of  gaze.  “ My  mother ’a 
name  was  Alma  Lee.” 

“ Indeed.  I remember  your  mother  well.  Is  she  living  still  ? ’* 
L “ She  is,  and  I bring  a letter  from  her.  But  that  is  not  what  I 


274 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


want  to  say.  My  mother  was  a deeply  wronged  woman,  and  she 
never  complained.  The  business,  Dean  Maitland,  is  just  this : My 
father  has  done  nothing  for  me ; all  has  fallen  upon  my  mother. 
She  has  had  me  well  educated  for  her  means,  and  wanted  me  to  go 
into  business.  But  I am  ambitious;  I wish  to  make  a figure  in  the 
world — to  be,  as  I said,  a gentleman,  for  I feel  the  good  blood  in 
my  veins,  and  I am  determined  to  have  my  right,  and  to  claim  from 
my  father  what  he  is  well  able  to  give  me — a university  education 
and  a start  in  life.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said  the  dean,  in  an  icy  tone. 

“ And  therefore,”  proceeded  the  youth,  springing  to  his  feet  the 
more  to  emphasize  his  words,  “ I come  to  you,  because  I am  your 
son  / ” 

The  word  “son”  he  delivered  as  if  dealing  a blow,  and  he  evi- 
dently expected  his  hearer  to  recoil  beneath  this  tremendous  asser- 
tion ; but  he  was  disappointed. 

The  dean’s  fine-cut  features  indeed  grew  pale  in  the  dusk,  and 
there  was  a sudden  deepening  of  tint  in  his  eyes ; his  lips  also  met 
with  a stern  compression.  But  of  this  the  young  man  saw  nothing, 
and  no  other  sign  of  emotion  betrayed  the  tumult  that  raged  so 
madly  within  him  at  the  sound  of  that  deadly  monosyllable. 

“Calm  yourself,  my  friend;  pray  be  seated  again,”  he  said,  in 
cool  and  silvery  tones.  “ Since  when,  may  I ask,  have  you  sufiered 
from  this  distressing  delusion  ? ” 

It  was  now  the  young  man’s  turn  to  be  aghast.  The  coolness 
with  which  this  startling  assertion  was  received  utterly  confounded 
him,  and  he  dropped,  with  a vacuous  stare,  into  his  seat,  muttering 
some  queer  Yankee  objurgation. 

“Delusion ! ” he  ejaculated  at  length. 

“ It  is  a very  usual  form  of  mental  disease  to  imagine  one’s  self 
the  son  of  some  eminent  person,”  observed  the  dean,  in  the  indiffer- 
ent tone  of  one  uttering  a mild  platitude.  “Are  you  at  present 
under  medical  treatment?  ” 

“Ho,  s^>,”  returned  the  lad,  regaining  his  mental  poise;  “I  am 
as  sound  in  mind  and  body  as  a man  can  possibly  be ; and  I know 
myself  to  be  your  son,  and  I am  here  to  claim  my  rights  as  such.” 

“ The  facts  of  your  birth  are  well  known  in  Malbourne,”  con- 
tinued the  dean,  in  the  same  indifferent  tone.  “ They  are  such  as 
reverence  for  parents — a virtue,  I fear,  not  inculcated  in  your 
adopted  country — should  lead  you  to  conceal,  and,  if  possible,  for- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


275 


get.  I remember  the  circumstances  fully.  I baptized  you  myself — 
that  is,  if  you  are  the  person  you  claim  to  be.” 

“I  am  not  surprised  that  you  should  disown  me  before  the 
world,”  said  the  youth  ; “ and  I own  that  it  is  impossible  to  speak 
upon  the  subject  without  some  irreverence  unbecoming  a son ; but 
I bid  you  ask  your  conscience,  sir,  whose  fault  it  is  that  I can  not 
refer  to  my  birth  without  imputing  blame  to  my  parents?  I bid  you 
further  ask  your  conscience  how  you  are  to  answer  at  the  bar  of 
Divine  Justice,  if  you  add  to  the  sin  which  brought  me  into  the 
world,  a fatherless  outcast,  with  the  instincts  of  a higher  rank  war- 
ring with  the  barren  necessities  of  his  life,  the  further  sin  of  neg- 
lecting the  responsibilities  you  rashly  incurred.  Oh,  I have  no  legal 
rights — that  I know  well ; but  have  I no  natural  rights — I who  have 
the  blood  of  an  ancient  family  in  my  veins,  the  instincts  of  a long 
line  of  gentlemen?  Have  I no  rights  in  the  sight  of  Him  whose 
eternal  laws  were  broken  by  the  sin  which  gave  rise  to  my  being, 
and  of  which  I was  entirely  innocent  ? ” 

It  was  a strange  reversal  of  parts,  the  son  admonishing  the  father, 
the  layman  rebuking  the  priest,  the  supposed  penitent  accusing  the 
confessor ; but  the  youth’s  fiery  words  struck  home,  and  the  dean 
quivered  visibly  beneath  them,  and  for  the  moment  he  could  sum- 
mon no  reply  to  his  ashen  lips. 

“ I am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  distress  you,  sir,”  continued  the 
young  man,  with  some  compunction,  “ but  you  will  see  on  refiection 
that  I ask  nothing  unreasonable.  I merely  ask  you  to  repair  the 
wrong  of  my  birth — or  rather  to  fulfill  the  obligations  incumbent  on 
a parent.  I have  grown  to  manhood  with  no  aid  or  recognition 
from  you.  I am  alone  in  the  world ; for  my  mother  has  a mortal 
disease,  and  has  come  home  only  to  die.  I only  ask  for  this  start 
in  life,  which  you  must  be  well  able  to  give ; I ask  no  further  recog- 
nition. Believe  me,  sir,  the  time  may  come  when  you  will  be  glad 
to  have  some  claim  on  the  duty,  if  not  the  affection,  of  a son,  and  I 
am  not  ungrateful.” 

The  dean  rose  to  his  feet,  quivering.  “ Silence ! ” he  cried,  in 
deep  tones  of  compelling  intensity.  I can  not  bear  this,”  he  added, 
in  a voice  of  anguish,  which  escaped  him  against  his  will.  “This 
is  intolerable,  to  be  insulted  in  one’s  own  house!  Go,  sir,  and  re- 
member that  in  this  country  conduct  so  outrageous  as  yours  is  like- 
ly to  lead  you  to  imprisonment  in  a lunatic  asylum.” 

[N’ow  that  he  was  standing  he  seemed  to  be  gradually  regaining 


276 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


the  mastery  of  himself,  which  for  the  moment  he  had  lost.  Young 
Lee  rose,  but  did  not  withdraw. 

‘‘I  go,”  he  replied.  “I  have  said  enough  for  the  present,  but 
you  will  hear  of  me  again  until  I gain  my  will.  In  the  mean  time, 
here  is  the  letter  my  mother  hid  me  deliver  into  your  own  hands, 
and  which  needs  an  answer.” 

The  dean  took  the  letter  with  an  inward  shudder  at  the  sight  of 
it,  and  brought  out  some  glasses,  which  he  affected  to  wipe  and  ar- 
range before  reading  it,  though  in  reality  he  needed  no  glasses ; he 
only  wanted  to  gain  time  and  composure. 

“By  the  way,  Mr.  Lee,”  he  observed  quietly,  “your  mother 
married,  I believe,  some  groom  before  leaving  England.  Is  he  liv- 
ing? ” 

“ She  married  Charles  Judkins,  who  was  a kind  stepfather  to 
me.  He  died  some  years  ago,  leaving  my  mother  and  myself  well 
provided  for.” 

“ Your  mother,  then,  has  no  other  children?  ” 

“ Hone,  sir.” 

The  dean  had  at  last  arranged  the  glasses  and  unfolded  the  let- 
ter, giving  one  swift  glance  at  his  visitor,  who  had  walked  up  to 
one  of  the  engravings,  a sweet  and  guileless  Madonna  with  a 
thoughtful  child,  and  was  examining  it  with  interest.  Neverthe- 
less, the  dean  shaded  his  face  from  the  light  as  he  read. 

The  room  was  very  still,  and  pleasant  sounds  stole  in  through 
the  open  lattice.  A great  bee  was  humming  about  the  roses  and 
honeysuckle  just  outside  ; a blackbird  woke  up  from  his  afternoon 
drowse  and  began  fluting  his  liquid  vespers ; the  cathedral  clock 
proclaimed  the  hour  in  deep  booming  notes,  and  all  the  bells  in  the 
city  echoed  it  with  varying  cadence;  young  voices  came  through 
the  sunny  air  of  the  garden,  and  the  stranger  saw  a party  playing 
at  tennis  below ; a girl’s  clear  laugh  rang  out  in  true  heart-music, 
and  was, folio  wed  by  a man’s.  It  was  Marion  laughing  at  some  ab- 
surd mistake  on  the  part  of  the  love-blinded  Lord  Arthur,  who 
was  ready  to  laugli  with  her.  The  dean  meanwhile  read  on  in  si- 
lence. 

The  young  man  grew  impatient,  and  longed  to  soothe  his  soul  by 
a hearty  whistle,  to  which  his  full  red  lips  rounded  themselves.  He 
got  to  the  end  of  the  engravings,  and  turned  once  more  to  the  fig- 
ire  at  the  table;  but  the  dean  was  still  reading,  statue-like,  with 
his  face  accidentally  shaded  by  his  hand,  though  he  never  turned 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


277 


a page  of  the  brief  letter  of  one  sheet.  The  picture  he  made  sitting 
thus  beneath  the  lattice,  through  which  some  long  gold  bars  of  sun- 
shine were  now  stealing,  remained  upon  the  young  man’s  memory 
for  ever,  though  he  did  not  hear  the  quick  subdued  breathing  of 
the  reader,  or  see  the  chill  drops  upon  his  tortured  brow. 

Within  a stone’s  throw  of  that  lattice  one  of  the  canons  was 
standing  on  a short  ladder,  tending  a peach-tree  on  his  garden  wall, 
thus  seeking  a pleasant  distraction  from  the  abstruse  Hebrew  stud- 
ies in  w^hich  he  had  been  buried  all  the  day.  His  wife  stood  in 
the  pathway  by  the  sunny  border,  where  the  bees  were  humming 
luxuriously  over  their  luscious  thieving,  and  looked  on  at  his  la- 
bors. 

“ I had  it  from  the  dean  myself,  Edmund,”  she  was  saying,  “this 
very  afternoon.” 

“Well,  my  dear,”  he  replied,  rather  indistinctly  on  account  of 
the  strips  of  cloth  he  held  in  his  mouth,  “you  will  now  have  the 
satisfaction  of  repeating  it  all  over  the  close.  Bishop  of  Warham, 
eh  ? Maitland  is  a lucky  fellow,  and  about  as  ignorant  as  that  cat  ” 
— pointing  to  a fine  grimalkin,  who  was  lazily  watching  his  master. 
“But  scholarship  goes  for  nothing  in  these  radica.  days.” 

“I  am  sure  he  will  make  a delightful  bishop,”  said  the  lady; 
“ and  who  knows  what  old  fogy  we  may  get  at  the  Deanery  now  ? 
Some  old  trump  with  his  nose  buried  in  a book  all  day,  perhaps.” 

“When  not  perched  on  a ladder,”  laughed  the  canon.  “ Well, 
who  wouldn’t  have  the  gift  of  the  gab  like  Maitland  ? Lucky  fel- 
low, to  be  sure ! ” 

The  letter  which  took  so  long  to  read  ran  as  follows : 

“ I am  come  home  to  die,  and  I wish  to  see  you  once  more  first. 
I promised  never  to  betray  you,  and  swore  away  an  innocent  man’s 
character  to  shield  you,  and  I have  never  had  a happy  hour  since. 
I can  not  undo  all  the  wrong  I have  done  for  your  sake,  but  I can 
and  must  clear  this  man,  who  never  did  me  harm.  I can  not  die 
in  peace  till  I have  righted  him.  Can  I do  it  without  hurting  you  ? 
Come  to  me  for  heaven’s  sake ; my  days  are  numbered.  My  son 
bears  this.  He  knows  his  parentage,  but  nothing  more.  He  is  a 
good  lad.  Alma  Judkins.” 

At  last  the  dean  lifted  his  head  and  questioned  the  youth  with 
regard  to  his  mother’s  illness  and  present  abode,  and  learned  in 


278 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


reply  that  she  was  suffering  from  some  fatal  internal  malady,  which 
had  become  suddenly  worse  in  consequence  of  a fall  in  the  Belmin 
ster  street,  and  that  she  had  been  admitted  to  the  paying  ward  of 
the  local  hospital,  whence  there  was  no  probability  of  her  issuing 
alive. 

“You  take  your  mother’s  extremity  easily,  young  man,”  said 
the  dean. 

But  the  youth  replied  that  he  had  been  expecting  the  end  for  so 
long  that  it  no  longer  agitated  him,  yet  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  as 
he  spoke.  The  dean  then  took  a pen  and  slowly  indited  a few  sen- 
tences, which  he  gave  to  the  young  man,  who  took  the  paper  and 
withdrew  with  a bow,  which  his  host  very  frigidly  returned. 

No  sooner  had  the  door  closed  upon  the  young  fellow’s  stalwart 
form  than  Cyril  dropped  into  his  chair,  and,  burying  his  face  in  his 
hands,  groaned  heavily,  shuddering  from  head  to  foot.  If  he  could 
have  dreamed  this  terrible  moment  twenty  years  ago,  would  that 
handsome  stripling  ever  have  seen  the  light?  If  any  man  could  be 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  embodied  result  of  one  sin,  would  he 
ever  sin  more?  Probably  he  would,  else  why  has  Eternal  Wisdom 
reserved  such  knowledge  for  the  most  part  to  another  world  ? 

A light,  swift  step  sounded  along  the  corridor ; the  door  opened, 
and  the  blind  boy  came  running  in,  with  a joyous  greeting  on  his 
lips. 

The  dean  lifted  his  head,  and  strove  to  calm  himself  as  he  wel- 
comed the  child  in  a gentle  voice;  but  his  heart  was  wrung  by  the 
contrast  between  this  lad  and  the  fine,  healthy  youth  who  had  just 
left  him — wrung,  too,  by  the  thought  that  the  latter’s  look  had 
shown  no  gleam  of  affection ; nothing  but  a challenging  defiantje. 

“I  made  such  a mistake,  papa,”  said  Everard;  “I  actually  took 
a stranger  for  you.  Yet  his  voice  was  louder  and  his  step  stronger 
than  yours.  I met  him  in  the  hall  now.  Benson  was  letting  him 
out.  Who  was  he?  Benson  says  his  face  is  rather  like  yours,  so 
perhaps  I was  not  so  very  stupid.” 

“ My  poor  Everard ! ” murmured  the  dean,  folding  the  child 
with  unwonted  tenderness  in  his  arms ; “ my  blighted  boy ! ” 

“I  am  not  poor,”  returned  the  child,  brightly,  while  he  laid  his 
round  soft  cheek  on  his  father’s  hollow  face  with  a colt-like  caress. 
“ Now,  dada,  I won’t  be  pitied.  Benson  said  the  fellow  was  like 
you,  so  his  eyes  were  little  better  than  my  ears.  But  who  was  he?  ” 

“ A stranger,  an  American.  So  you  sang  the  solo,  I hear  ? ” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


270 


“ Yes ; and  it  went  so  well.  My  voice  was  like  a bird  flying  np 
to  heaven’s  gate.  Father,  it  is  nice  to  have  such  a voice ; it  goes  as 
if  it  couldn’t  help  it.  And  I showed  such  a nice  fellow  over  the 
cathedral,  and  took  him  in  thoroughly.” 

“ Poor  lad ; poor  dear  lad  ! And  what  is  going  on  now  ? ” 

“ Virgil  with  the  Herr.  And  after  dinner  Marry  has  promised 
to  accompany  our  violins.  And  what  do  you  think?  The  duke 
has  a Stradivarius,  and  Lord  Arthur  is  to  take  me  to  Dewhurst  to 
hear  it,  and  perhaps  touch  it.  How  hot  and  wet  your  forehead  is! 
Is  your  head  bad  ? And  I bothering?  ” 

The  boy’s  sightless  gaze  met  his  father’s  glance  of  passionate 
tenderness,  all  unconscious  of  the  agony  it  looked  upon  ; and  the 
dean  turned  away,  for  he  could  not  bear  it.  Marion’s  laugh  came 
floating  in  again  with  its  masculine  echo,  and  the  child’s  face  bright- 
ened. 

“Marry  and  Arthur,”  he  said. 

The  dean  pushed  the  dark  hair  from  Hie  boy’s  brow,  kissed  and 
blessed  him,  and  dismissed  him  under  the  plea  of  a headache  and 
desire  for  quiet,  watching  him  leave  the  room  with  a look  of  wist- 
ful compassion.  He  loved  his  blind  son  better  than  anything  on 
earth,  but  he  remembered  how  he  had  held  the  other  lad  in  his 
arms  at  the  font,  and  how  the  infant’s  touch  had  stirred  the  first 
keen  thrill  of  fatherhood  in  his  heart. 

“I  dare  not,  oh,  I dare  not!  It  would  be  utter  ruin!”  he 
murmured  to  himself,  in  reply  to  some  inward  suggestion. 

The  young  Canadian  meantime  left  the  Deanery,  and,  placing 
his  hat  firmly  on  his  head,  turned  to  take  one  comprehensive  look 
at  itbefo^  he  went  round  by  the  cloisters  and  disappeared. 

“ Je-7'^^salem ! ” he  exclaimed,  “if  my  sainted  parent  isn’t  a first- 
rate  actor  and  a cool  hand ! Now  I know  where  I got  my  brains 
from.” 

The  dean  sat  on,  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  and  his 
heart  torn,  with  the  deadly  missive  before  him,  and  utter  ruin  star- 
ing him  in  the  face,  while  the  long  gold  bars  of  sunshine  lengthened 
and  fell  across  him  unheeded,  and  the  pleasant  chime-music  told 
quarter  after  quarter. 

“Oh,  my  God ! ” he  groaned,  “but  one  sin  in  a youth  so  spot- 
less! And  have  I not  repented?  And  are  all  these  years  of  agony- 
nothing?  And  the  work  I have  done  and  have  still  to  do!  And 
the  powers  vouchsafed  to  me!  Is  there  no  mercy — none?  ” 


280 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


An  hour  ago  he  had  been  so  secure,  so  unsuspecting — the  old 
ghost  laid  for  ever,  he  thought.  And  now  ? To  go  to  that  public 
hospital,  he,  to  whom  no  disguise  was  possible,  whose  very  fame 
would  pursue  him  and  point  him  out  with  a tinger  of  fire,  to  meet 
the  dying  gaze  of  that  hated  woman,  to  hear  her  terrible  reproach  f 
How  could  he?  And  that  boy,  with  his  strong  self-will  and  his 
ambition — Dean  Maitland  knew  too  well  whence  he  got  those  quali- 
ties— he  would  hunt  him  down  without  pity.  Why  not  cut  the  knot 
for  ever  ? He  had  poison  at  hand. 

The  low  mellow  murmurs  of  a gong  rose  on  his  ear  (there  were 
no  bells  or  any  harsh  sounds  at  the  Deanery) ; he  heard  Marion’s 
voice  calling  to  Everard,  and  the  tap  of  her  light  foot  as  she  ran 
down-stairs,  only  just  in  time  for  dinner.  He  could  not  take  his 
life  just  then ; he  had  to  invent  an  excuse  for  not  appearing  at 
dinner. 

The  perilous  moment  past,  better  thoughts  came  to  him.  He 
leaned  out  of  the  winddw  and  breathed  the  cool  dusk  air.  A 
wakened  bird  twittered  happily  before  turning  again  to  its  rest; 
Everard’s  pure  voice  floated  out  from  an  open  window,  with  the 
words  of  an  anthem  he  was  learning.  The  dean  fell  down  before 
the  cruciflx,  and  tried  to  pray.  He  lay  there  in  the  darkness  while 
his  children’s  music  sounded  through  the  open  windows,  till  the 
moonlight  stole  in  through  the  lattice  upon  him,  and  there  was 
silence  in  the  house,  save  for  the  ticking  of  clocks  and  the  deep 
breathing  of  sleepers.  Then  he  arose,  haggard  and  exhausted,  but 
resolved  to  do  his  duty,  whatever  it  might  cost  him. 

Striking  a light,  he  went  to  a cabinet  inlaid  with  delicate  mosaic, 
and  touched  a spring.  A hidden  compartment  was  disclos||^,  whence 
he  took  a bottle  and  a glass  on  which  measures  were  engraved.  Care- 
fully pouring  out  an  exact  quantity  of  dai’k  brown  liquid,  he  drank  it 
and  replaced  the  spring. 

The  dean  was  a total  abstainer ; he  knew  the  world  too  well  to 
hope  for  influence  over  the  popular  mind  unless  he  bowed  to  the 
idol  of  the  hour,  and  frequently  observed  to  friends  that  he  ab- 
stained from  wine  for  the  sake  of  example.”  For  the  same  rea- 
son, probably,  nobody  knew  anything  about  the  little  bottle  of  dark 
liquid. 


^ THE  SILEHCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


281 


CHAPTER  III. 

When  Everard  reached  the  High  Street,  his  attention  was 
caught  by  an  announcement  in  a bookseller’s  window,  “ Dean  Mait- 
land’s new  work,”  and,  on  going  up  to  the  shop,  he  saw  the  vol- 
umes fresh  from  the  publisher’s,  in  their  plain  brown  binding.  It 
was  the  third  volume  of  the  dean’s  “ Commentary  on  the  Pauline 
Epistles.”  There  also  he  saw,  in  every  variety  of  binding  suited  to 
luxurious  devotion,  his  other  works : his  “ Secret  Penitent,”  his 
“ Knight’s  Expiation,  and  other  Poems,”  his  “ Lyra  Sacra,”  his 
“Individual  Sanctity,”  his  “Verses  for  the  Suffering,”  “Parish 
Sermons,”  “Sermons  preached  in  Westminster  Abbey,”  together 
with  endless  tracts  and  pamphlets.  Everard  purchased  the  “Se- 
cret Penitent”  and  the  “Expiation,”  after  turning  over  the  leaves 
of  the  sermons,  wondering  at  their  commonplace  character,  and 
listening  to  a long  eulogy  on  the  author  from  the  bookseller.  Then 
he  walked  up  the  hill  to  the  station,  dipping  into  his  new  purchases 
as  he  went. 

Having  claimed  his  modest  possessions,  he  had  them  conveyed 
to  the  George  Inn,  where  he  dined  in  a first-floor  room  with  a how- 
window  looking  out  on  the  sunny,  hustling  High  Street;  and  while 
he  dined  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  dean’s  book,  recognizing 
Cyril’s  style  and  certain  peculiar  turns  of  thought  and  traits  of 
character  as  he  read,  and  feeling  more  and  more  that  neither  the 
poems  nor  the  devotions  were  the  work  of  a conscious  hypocrite. 
From  an  artistic  point  of  view,  they  were  not  calculated  to  take  the 
world  by  storm;  but  there  was  an  unmistakable  ring  of  reality 
throughout,  which  entitled  them  to  respect,  and  accounted  for  the 
influence  Dean  Maitland  was  said  to  exercise  over  men’s  minds. 
The  “ Secret  Penitent  ” had  passed  through  many  editions.  It 
must  have  comforted  the  souls  of  thousands  of  human  beings;  it 
could  only  have  been  written  by  a man  of  deep  religious  convic- 
tions and  high-toned  morality. 

Everard  sat  in  the  bow- window,  listening  to  the  hum  of  tho 
streets  and  the  cadences  of  the  hells,  and  ponderin'g  with  a bewil- 
dered mind  over  this  enigma  of  human  character ; and  again  he 
wondered,  as  he  had  so  often  wondered  during  the  earlier  days  of 
miserable  brooding  in  liis  captivity,  how  it  was  possible  that  such 
a man  could  have  sinned  so  heavily?  He  recalled  his  sensitive 


282 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND^ 


refinement,  his  excessive  exaltation  of  the  spiritual  above  the  ani- 
mal, his  scorn  for  the  facile  follies  of  youth,  his  piety,  the  purity  of 
his  emotions,  his  almost  womanly  tenderness,  and  marveled  with  a 
bewildered  amazement.  He  had  himself  not  been  unacquainted 
with  the  fires  of  temptation,  but  his  life  had  been  unscathed,  nev- 
ertheless, because  he  had  been  strong  enough  to  resist.  But  that 
such  fires  should  have  power  over  Cyril  seemed  incredible,  especially 
when  he  remembered  his  austere,  almost  ascetic  life. 

Equally  strange  did  it  appear  to  Cyril  himself,  as  he  lay  pros- 
trate before  the  crucifix,  face  to  face  with  his  sin,  and  wondering  if 
indeed  he  were  the  same  man  as  he  who  went  astray  twenty  years 
ago. 

Yet  the  first  sin  was  simple  enough,  giving  the  components  of 
Cyril’s  character  and  Alma’s,  the  strange  and  inexplicable  entangle- 
ment of  the  animal  and  the  spiritual  in  human  nature,  and  the  blind 
madness  in  which  passion,  once  kindled,  involves  the  whole  being. 

Alma  was  then  innocent  of  heart;  but  what  is  innocence  before 
the  fierce  flame  of  temptation,  unless  guarded  by. high  principle  and 
severe  self-mastery  ? Cyril  could  not  live  without  adoration,  and, 
when  Marion  turned  from  him,  he  caught  at  that  unconsciously 
offered  him  elsewhere,  telling  himself  that  there  could  be  no  harm 
to  such  as  he,  above  temptation  as  he  was,  in  watching  the  impas- 
sioned light  of  Alma’s  beautiful  eyes,  and  that  pity  required  him  to 
pour  some  kindness  into  so  stricken  and  guileless  a heart. 

So  in  those  idle  days  of  the  Shotover  curacy  he  trod  the  prim- 
rose path  of  dalliance  with  a careless  and  unguarded  heart,  and  did 
not  waken  to  a sense  of  danger  until  he  found  himself  and  another 
precipitated  downward  into  the  very  gulfs  of  hell.  The  shock  of  the 
fall  sobered  him,  and  suddenly  quenched  the  delirium  of  the  senses 
which  had  hitherto  blinded  him,  and  left  a mingled  loathing  and 
contempt  in  its  place;  and  the  abasement  of  his  own  fall,  and  the 
terrible  sense  of  having  wrought  the  ruin  of  another,  stirred  the  yet 
un  wakened  depths  of  his  nature,  and  kindled  the  first  faint  begin- 
nings of  deeper  moral  and  spiritual  life.  Had  he  but  possessed  the 
courage  and  strength  of  will  to  accept  the  consequences,  to  confess 
where  confession  was  due,  and  to  atone  as  far  as  atonement  was 
possible,  both  he  and  the  more  innocent  partner  of  his  guilt  might 
have  recovered  moral  health,  and  even  happiness,  and  he  might 
have  led  the  noblest  if  not  perhaps  the  happiest  of  lives^ deriving 
strength  from  his  very  weakness. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


283 


For  his  life  had  till  then  been  untempted,  and  all  his  impulses 
had  been  good  and  beautiful.  But  he  was  a coward,  and  loved  the 
praise  of  men.  And  more  than  all  things  and  persons  he  loved 
Cyril  Maitland.  He  was  also  a self- deceiver ; he  drugged  his  con- 
science, and  was  dragged  into  the  tortuous  windings  of  his  own 
inward  deceit;  and  thus  he  fell  from  depth  to  depth,  like  Lucifer, 
falling  all  the  deeper  because  of  the  height  from  which  he  fell,  until 
he  finished  in  the  perversion  of  his  moral  being  with  the  deed  of  a 
Judas.  Of  that  last  iniquity  he  never  dared  think. 

Everard  read  and  pondered,  and  pondered  and  read,  and  was 
filled  with  awe  and  pity.  Then,  laying  the  books  aside  with  a sense 
of  joy  in  his  newly  gained  freedom,  he  took  his  hat  and  sauntered 
along  the  dusk,  yet  unlighted  streets,  letting  his  fancy  dwell  on 
brighter  themes. 

He  had  not  gone  far  before  he  met  a man  who  looked  curiously 
at  him,  turned  after  he  had  passed,  and  again  studied  him  intently, 
and  finally,  retracing  his  steps,  accosted  him. 

“ It  is  l)r.  Everard,  surely  ? ” he  said. 

‘‘That  is  my  name,”  replied  Everard,  a little  startled  at  the  un- 
familiar sound  of  the  long  unspoken  name.  “ But  I have  not  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  yours,”  he  added,  scanning  the  figure  and  face 
of  the  respectable  tradesman. 

“ Think  of  Dartmoor  and  Ho.  56,”  replied  the  tradesman,  in  a 
low  tone. 

A light  of  recognition  broke  over  Everard’s  face,  and  he  clasped 
the  offered  hand  with  a cordial  greeting. 

“ It  is  no  wonder  that  you  did  not  recognize  me,”  the  man  said ; 
‘'thanks  to  you,  I make  rather  a different  figure  to  what  I did  on 
tne  moor.  But  yours  is  a face  not  to  be  forgotten.” 

“You  are  doing  well,  apparently,  Smithson.” 

“I  have  a linen-draper’s  shop,  and  I married  a good  girl,  and  we 
have  two  little  ones,  and  we  pay  our  way,”  he  replied.  “If  you 
are  going  my  way — I was  just  strolling  up  the  hill  for  a breath 
of  air — I will  tell  you  all  about  it.  You  know,  doctor,  I could 
never  have  had  the  courage  to  face  the  world  again  but  for  you. 
Your  words  were  always  in  my  ears,  ‘ The  only  atonement  we  can 
make  is  to  accept  the  consequences  manfully  and  conquer  them.’ 
It  was  uphill  work,  and  I was  often  ready  to  throw  up  the  sponge; 
but  I stuck  to  it,  and  got  through.  Everybody  knows  my  story, 
but  they  have  mostly  forgotten  it.  Many  a time  when  I was  ready 


284 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


to  give  up,  and  take  to  lying  ways  and  hiding  and  going  to  the  deuce 
again,  I remembered  how  you,  an  honorable  gentleman,  who  never 
did  wrong,  trusted  and  respected  me  in  spite  of  all,  and  I thought, 
‘ If  he  can  respect  me,  others  will,’  and  I held  on.  You  remember 
the  Putney  Slogger  ? ” 

Poor  Slogger ! he  had  a good  heart,  Jim.” 

“ He  goes  straight  now,  and  says  it  was  you  that  heartened  him 
to  it.  Has  a green- grocer’s  cart,  and  deals  fair.” 

Smithson  had  been  a clerk  in  a mercantile  office,  and,  falling 
into  dissipated  ways  and  consequent  debt,  helped  himself  to  petty 
sums,  which  gradually  grew  larger,  until  the  usual  end  of  such  a 
course  was  reached — an  appearance  in  the  prisoner’s  dock,  and  a 
sentence  of  penal  servitude.  He  was  barely  twenty  when  Everard 
made  his  acquaintance  at  Dartmoor,  and  a more  hopeless  human 
being  than  he  did  not  exist.  He  had  been  brought  up  by  an  uncle, 
who  now  washed  his  hands  of  him  for  ever.  Everard  pitied  the 
miserable  lad,  won  his  affections  and  confidence,  showed  him  how 
he  could  shorten  his  term  by  good  conduct,  impressed  upon  him 
that  one  fault  need  not  blight  a man’s  life,  and  encouraged  him  to 
achieve  a new  reputation. 

"When  he  got  his  ticket-of-leave,  he  boldly  offered  his  services  in 
shops  and  offices  at  a low  price,  in  consideration  of  his  antecedents, 
and,  after  many  rebuffs  and  much  privation  during  a time  when  he 
kept  himself  alive  by  casual  manual  labor,  by  dint  of  persistence 
and  watching  the  time  when  employers  were  short-handed,  he  got 
himself  taken  on  as  assistant  in  a draper’s  shop,  for  which  he  had 
done  errands  and  odd  jobs. 

Here  he  suffered  much  misery  from  the  taunts  and  practical 
jokes  of  his  fellow-shopmen,  who  managed  to  get  hold  of  his  his- 
tory, the  truth  of  which  he  did  not  deny.  Did  any  petty  dishonesty 
occur,  suspicion  turned  at  once  to  the  gaol-bird  ; nay,  was  anything 
lost  it  was  laid  to  his  account.  More  than  once  he  was  on  the  point 
of  being  taken  into  custody,  when  his  innocence  was  proved ; and 
once  the  roasting  and  sending  to  Coventry  he  underwent  at  the 
hands  of  his  comrades  had  become  so  intolerable  that,  in  his  des- 
peration, he  offered  to  fight  each  man  separately,  in  order  of  senior- 
ity, on  the  condition  that  the  conquered  were  never  again  to  allude 
to  his  unfortunate  past.  His  challenge  was  refused  on  the  ground 
that  no  man  could  sully  his  hands  by  fighting  him,  but  one  or  two 
of  the  better  disposed  from  that  day  dropped  the  cruel  tyranny ; 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


285 


others  followed  their  example,  and  Smithson  gradually  earned  a 
character  and  received  full  salary. 

Then  he  saved  money,  and,  having  gained  the  atfection  of  a girl 
in  the  millinery  department  of  his  house,  felt  that  he  had  won  the 
battle  of  life.  They  put  their  savings  together  and  started  in  a 
humble  way  on  their  own  account,  and  now  they  had  a large  estab- 
lishment, and  paid  their  way.  They  did  not,  of  course,  parade 
Smithson’s  antecedents;  but  they  were  determined  to  have  no  con- 
cealments, and  intended  that  their  children,  when  of  fit  age,  should 
know  the  whole  story.  Smithson  now  related  to  Everard  how, 
mindful  of  his  own  desperate  struggles  and  misery  on  leaving  prison, 
he  tried  to  lend  others  a helping  hand,  by  giving  them  employment. 
It  was,  however,  found  extremely  difficult  to  mix  them  with  people 
of  good  reputation.  The  end  of  it  was  that  his  entire  stafiT,  both  of 
house  and  shop,  consisted  of  criminals,  all  of  whom  were  supposed 
to  ignore  the  antecedents  of  the  others,  and  many  of  whom  believed 
the  others  to  be  spotless.  Many,  whom  he  was  unable  to  employ 
himself,  Smithson  had  set  going  by  offering  security  for  their  integ- 
rity, and  by  this  means  had  had  the  happiness  of  setting  a number 
of  fallen  creatures  upon  their  feet  again. 

“But  are  you  never  deceived  or  robbed?  ” asked  Everard,  who 
was  deeply  interested  in  his  friend’s  narration. 

Smithson  smiled,  and  replied  that  his  trust  had  more  than  once 
been  abused,  but  more  frequently  justified.  That  very  week  he  had 
paid  a hundred  pounds  surety  money. 

“You  will  not  make  a fortune  at  this  rate,  Jim.” 

“Ho,  doctor;  but  we  are  content  to  pay  our  way,  and  we  like 
helping  people  better  than  getting  money,”  he  replied.  “ My  wife 
is  greatly  set  on  that,  especially  on  helping  the  women.  Come  and 
see  her ; she  has  heard  many  a tale  of  you.  It  will  be  supper-time 
by  the  time  we  are  back.” 

Everard  gladly  accepted  this  invitation,  and  found  among  Smith- 
son’s staff  another  old  prison  friend,  whose  memory  of  him  was  as 
grateful  as  his  employer’s.  Smithson  showed  him  the  photograph 
of  a refined-looking  woman,  with  a pleasing  face.  “ Our  fore- 
woman,” he  said. 

“But  surely  there  is  nothing  against  her,”  said  Everard. 

“She  had  ten  years  for  killing  her  husband,”  replied  Smithson. 

“Capital  woman  of  business,  and  the  sweetest  temper.  The 
dean  got  hold  of  her,  and  sent  her  to  me.  He  stands  surety  for 


286 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


those  who  have  no  character.  Ah!  no  one  knows  the  good  that 
man  does ! ” 

“Do  you  mean  the  Dean  of  Belminster?”  asked  Everard,  in  a 
hard  voice. 

“Of  course;  dean — Dean  Maitland.” 

Everard  again  looked  at  the  handsome  milliner,  whose  face  was 
as  gentle  as  it  was  refined,  and  could  not  help  asking  what  led  this 
amiable  person  to  resort  to  the  extreme  measure  of  murdering  her 
husband.  No  doubt  he  deserved  it,  he  thought;  hut  then,  so  many 
husbands  do,  that  it  would  cause  considerable  social  inconvenience 
to  condone  such  acts. 

“ She  did  it  in  a passion,  poor  girl.  The  fellow  was  a drunken 
brute,  years  older  than  she,  and  he  used  to  beat  her  and  drag  her 
about  by  the  hair  night  after  night.  She  put  up  with  it,  as  so  many 
poor  things  do,  and  went  starved  and  barefoot,  though  they  were 
well-to-do  people.  But  one  night  he  came  home  drunk  as  usual, 
and  dashed  the  baby  against  the  wall,  and  she  took  up  a knife  and 
stabbed  him  to  death.” 

“ And  the  baby?  ” 

“ The  baby  is  now  in  Earlswood,  a hopeless  idiot.  She  hopes 
to  have  it  home  to  tend  some  day.  It  was  a clever  little  thing,  just 
beginning  to  talk.  Nobody  but  the  dean  and  we  two  guess  there  is 
anything  wrong  in  her  past.  She  is  only  four  and  thirty  now,  and 
much  admired.  My  wife  is  very  fond  of  her.” 

“ Have  you  any  more  murderers  ? ” asked  Everard. 

“Not  at  present.  We  are  mostly  thieves  and  forgers  just  now, 
and  all  first  convictions.  Ah,  doctor!  the  Almighty  can  bring  good 
out  of  evil,  and  it  was  a happy  day  for  many  besides  me  when  first 
1 saw  your  kind  face  in  that  awful  place.  Nobody  but  you  ever 
told  me  that  good  is  stronger  than  evil.  You  said  it  in  the  exercise- 
yard  that  cold,  foggy  Sunday,  while  all  that  vicious  talk  was  going 
on  round  us,  and  the  Mauler  was  making  his  filthy  jokes.” 

“That  is  all  over  now,  Jim,  thank  God ! ” said  Everard. 

Then  the  former  comrades  parted,  Everard  deeply  moved  by 
what  he  had  seen  and  heard,  and  half  doubting  if  the  pleasant,  open 
face  of  the  philanthropic  linen-draper,  with  its  look  of  grave  thought 
and  settled  happiness,  could  indeed  be  the  same  as  that  white,  hag- 
gard, abject  face  with  the  despairing  eyes  which  had  so  moved  his 
pity  years  ago  in  the  dreary  prison,  and  thankful  for  his  long  agony 
if  it  had  been  the  salvation  of  but  one  fellow-creature. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


287 


The  next  evening  found  him  in  the  nave  of  the  cathedral  some 
time  before  the  appointed  hour  for  the  lecture,  for  the  verger  had 
vrarned  him  that  the  attendance  would  be  very  large.  The  sun  was 
still  shining  warmly  on  the  lime-tree  avenue  outside,  making  the 
fresh  foliage  glow  like  a jewel  of  unearthly  radiance  in  its  blended 
gold  and  green  transluceuce,  throwing  long  powdery  shafts  of  gold 
through  the  windows  up  into  the  dim  recesses  of  the  groined  roof, 
and  disclosing  carved  nooks  only  thus  touched  by  the  midsummer 
glory,  and  dark  all  the  year  long  besides.  But  the  body  of  the  ca- 
thedral was  solemnly  dusk,  and  great  masses  of  shadow  brooded  in 
the  choirs,  transepts,  and  chantries,  and  each  brotherhood  of  massed 
pillars  in  the  nave  was  bound  with  a girdle  of  tiny  fire- points,  which 
were  to  grow  larger  with  the  gathering  gloom. 

Everard  watched  the  great  stream  of  worshipers  pour  steadily 
and  quietly  in  and  fill  the  long  lines  of  chairs,  which  made  the  pil- 
lars look  more  lofty  and  the  soaring  roof  farther  off  than  ever. 
They  were  chiefiy  men,  the  lectures  being  specially  given  for  work- 
ing men;  but  women  were  not  excluded,  and  in  some  cases  accom- 
panied a husband,  a father,  or  a brother.  Men  with  hard  and 
stained  hands,  with  clothes  still  redolent  of  the  putty,  paint,  or  oil 
of  the  day’s  labors;  men  with  rugged,  eager  faces  and  athletic 
frames,  for  the  most  part : also  the  pallid,  weak-kneed  tailors,  shoe- 
makers, and  other  indoor-laborers. 

Clerks  and  shopmen  were  also  there,  with  men  of  a higher  stand- 
ing still;  but  it  was  the  hard-handed  fellows  in  whom  Everard  found 
himself  most  interested — those  extremely  human  creatures  in  whom 
the  elementary  instincts  and  passions  are  still  so  active  and  un- 
checked, and  whose  intellects  are  so  starved  and  yet  so  unspoiled. 
How  would  the  refined  and  cultivated  dean  touch  these  ? he  won- 
dered. He  had  lived  among  them  so  long  himself  that  he  had  ac- 
quired a strong  affection  for  the  raw  material  of  human  nature ; but 
what  link  w-as  there  between  the  delicate-handed  Cyril  and  these 
untutored  sons  of  impulse  ? A link  there  surely  must  be,  or  they 
would  not  thus  come  pouring  in  to  hear  him. 

Far  down  among  the  hard  visages  of  the  artisans,  Everard  saw 
some  black-coated,  clerical-looking  men,  whose  peculiar  half-finished 
appearance  proclaimed  them  to  be  dissenting  ministers,  and  he  re- 
membered how  the  verger  told  him  that  the  popular  Spurgeon 
himself  did  not  disdain  to  try  and  catch  the  secret  of  the  dean’:^ 
golden  mouthed  eloquence. 

19 


288 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


Such  an  agitation  pervaded  his  being,  that  even  the  quiet  majesty 
of  the  great  dim  cathedral  could  scarcely  calm  him.  He  could  now 
count  the  hours  before  his  meeting  with  Lilian,  and  another  second 
might  bring  him  face  to  face  with  Cyril,  whom  he  had  last  seen  in 
the  terrible  moment  of  his  sentence.  It  seemed  as  if  the  service 
would  never  begin.  The  worshipers  still  poured  in,  the  nave  was 
full ; but  where  were  the  clergy  ? The  organ  had  been  sounding 
for  some  time — soft,  mellow  music,  as  soothing  as  the  wave-lullaby 
of  the  summer  sea,  with  no  hint  of  slumbering  tempests — and  a sick 
fancy  took  Everard’s  shaken  mind  that  something  was  wrong,  and 
Cyril  would  never  come. 

He  seemed  to  have  been  looking  at  that  dark  sea  of  earnest  faces, 
and  hearing  that  solemn,  wave-like  music,  for  ever  in  the  beam- 
broken  dusk  of  the  vast  building.  But  at  last  a melody  rose  slowly, 
like  an  ocean  spirit,  out  of  the  softly  breaking  waves  of  music,  and 
floated  away  over  its  surface;  it  was  Mendelssohn’s,  “If  with  all 
your  hearts  ye  truly  seek  me  ” — the  same  which  Cyril  had  listened 
to  in  the  hour  of  his  desperate  inward  conflict  eighteen  years  ago, 
and  the  small  choir  entered  with  two  clergymen,  one  of  whom  wore 
the  scarlet  hood  of  a doctor  over  his  snowy  surplice,  and  whom  he 
heard  it  whispered  was  no  other  than  the  great  dean. 

He  had  so  stationed  himself,  partly  with  a view  to  being  unseen 
by  the  preacher,  that  he  only  caught  a brief  glimpse  of  the  pro- 
cession, and  lost  sight 'of  the  dean  entirely  when  the  latter  took  the 
place  he  occupied  during  the  prayers,  so  that  he  could  not  recog- 
nize him. 

Cyril  had  risen  that  morning  refreshed  by  sleep,  and  had  looked 
upon  the  disturbing  events  of  the  previous  evening  from  quite  an- 
other point  of  view.  In  the  evening,  alone  in  the  silence  of  his 
study,  he  had  been  a sinful  man,  face  to  face  with  the  awful  con- 
sequences of  his  guilt,  prostrate  before  the  God  whose  laws  he  had 
broken,  and  whose  priesthood  he  had  dishonored.  In  the  sunny, 
morning,  at  the  breakfast-table,  surrounded  by  an  adoring  family, 
with  servants  attentive  to  his  will,  with  a pile  of  correspondence 
before  him — correspondence  in  which  the  Dean  of  Belminster  was 
asked  to  do  this  and  that,  and  implored  to  give  advice  or  attendance 
on  the  other  ; correspondence  relating  to  the  Bishopric  of  Warham, 
which  was  now  virtually  his  own — he  was  another  man : he  was 
the  Dean  of  Belminster,  the  Bishop  Designate  of  Warham,  the  friend 
of  princes  and  ministers,  the  popular  author,  the  chosen  guide‘  of 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


289 


troubled  consciences.  This  man  naturally  thought  in  other  ways 
than  the  conscience-stricken  sinner  alone  with  his  guilt. 

While  breakfasting  and  chatting  pleasantly  with  his  children, 
and  with  Miss  Mackenzie  and  the  German  tutor,  both  of  whom  were 
under  the  spell  of  his  fascination,  an  under-current  of  thought 
passed  through  his  mind  on  the  subject  of  last  night’s  unsuspected 
agony.  While  rapidly  running  through  his  correspondence,  and 
answering  letter  after  letter  with  the  swift  skill  of  a practiced  pen  ; 
while  entering  the  cathedral  behind  the  white-robed  choir ; while 
listening  to  the  chanted  prayers  and  psalms ; while  sending  his  beau- 
tiful voice  pealing  down  the  dim  aisles  on  the  wings  of  the  ancient 
Hebrew  poems ; — the  same  undercurrent  of  thought  flowed  silent- 
ly on. 

Was  it  his  fault  that  a series  of  blunders  had  condemned  Ever- 
ard  to  an  excessive  sentence  for  a crime  that  was  never  committed  ? 
Was  he  responsible  for  the  severity  of  the  judge,  the  stupidity  of  the 
jury,  the  unlucky  blunderings  of  the  witnesses — above  all,  for  the 
perjury  of  Alma  Lee  ? A man  may  love  a woman  who  has  sinned, 
but  few  men  love  women  who  sin  for  their  sake,  even  though  that 
sin  be  of  their  own  compassing.  Cyril  had  turned  from  Alma  after 
her  flrst  fall;  but  when  she  stood  and  swore  to  the  undoing  of 
Everard,  he  loathed  her  with  an  unspeakable  loathing.  He  said  to 
himseif  that  she  was  thoroughly  bad,  the  cause  of  every  trouble  he 
had  ever  known ; as  the  sons  of  Adam  always  do  when  they  sin,  he 
threw  all  the  blame  on  the  woman. 

He  argued  within  himself  that  it  was  now  too  late  for  reparation ; 
by  this  time  Everard  must  have  nearly  completed  his  term  of  im- 
prisonment. His  life  had  been  hopelessly  ruined ; to  stir  the  muddy 
waters  of  that  bitter  past  would  be  merely  to  bring  irretrievable 
ruin  on  others.  Alma  could  not,  he  thought,  clear  Everard  without 
betraying  him. 

And  then  he  considered  his  position  in  the  Church,  his  elevation 
in  men’s  minds,  the  influence  he  had  upon  his  generation — an  influ- 
ence depending  entirely  on  moral  spotlessness,  and  asked  what  sin 
could  equal  that  of  ruining  his  own  career  of  exceptional  usefulness  ? 
To  comfort  the  morbid  terrors  of  a dying  reprobate,  was  he  to  bring 
disgrace  upon  the  national  Church,  of  which  he  was  a chief  orna- 
ment; nay,  upon  the  very  Christianity  of  which  he  had  been  so 
famous  a teacher?  Was  he  to  blast  the  prospects  of  his  innocent 
children;  to  bring  ruin  on  them,  and  disgrace  upon  his  aged  father 


290 


TRE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


and  upon  the  honored  name  that  even  his  base-born  son  revered? 
The  thing  was  monstrous ; the  more  he  looked  at  it  the  more  mon- 
strous it  appeared. 

Then  he  remembered  how  cruel  Fate  had  been  to  him,  how  good 
his  intentions  ever  were,  how  far  he  had  been  from  dreaming  one 
of  the  consequences  which  wrapped  him  round  now  in  a net  of  such 
complicated  meshing.  As  to  Alma,  it  turned  him  sick  to  think  of  a 
sin  which  his  inmost  soul  loathed ; he  must  have  been  mad,  possessed, 
suffering  from  some  supernatural  assault  of  the  powers  of  darkness 
— and  he  had  repented,  Heaven  alone  knew  how  bitterly. 

He  thought  of  the  fatal  hour  when  he  disguised  himself  in  his 
friend’s  dress,  with  no  thought  but  the  desire  of  escaping  recogni- 
tion and  dread  of  bringing  scandal  upon  his  cloth,  never  dreaming 
that  he  would  be  mistaken  for  Everard,  who  was  singularly  unlike 
him  in  face  and  manner.  He  thought  of  the  heavy  stick  he  had 
taken,  simply  because  a man  likes  to  have  something  in  his  hand, 
and  which  he  had  thrown  away  before  the  struggle ; of  Ben  Lee’s 
unexpected  appearance ; of  his  own  wish  to  appease  the  anger  of 
the  man  he  had  so  cruelly  wronged;  of  Lee’s  unbridled  fury ; of  the 
violence  of  his  assault  upon  him ; and  of  the  fatal  blow  which  had 
been  dealt  with  no  ill  intention,  but  was  merely  the  rebound  of 
that  which  Lee  was  dealing  him. 

In  all  this  he  felt  that  he  had  been  the  sport  of  a cruel  destiny, 
the  fool  of  fortune.  And  had  he  not  suffered  enough  to  atone  for 
more  than  men  could  ever  impute  to  him.  He  thought  of  the  wife 
of  his  youth,  first  estranged,  and  then  fading  before  him;  of  the 
sweet  faces  of  his  children,  and  the  graves  which  closed  over  them 
in  their  loveliest  bloom,  just  as  each  had  twined  itself  round  his 
heart.  He  thought  of  his  son  and  his  hopeless  afiliction,  and  his 
heart  bled. 

Yet  he  intended  to  go  to  the  dying  woman.  But  not  immedi- 
ately ; he  had  pressing  duties  to  perform  first,  and  who  knew  what 
might  turn  up  in  the  mean  time?  Besides,  he  needed  time  for 
thought  before  meeting  her. 

In  the  afternoon  there  came  a second  message  from  the  sick  . 
woman,  bidding  him  come  that  day,  as  she  might  not  live  to  see 
another.  He  could  not  come  at  the  moment,  having  just  then  an 
engagement  that  could  not  be  postponed ; he  promised,  with  a sick 
heart,  to  come  in  an  hour’s  time. 

The  hour  passed.  He  took  his  hat  and  yet  lingered,  going  back 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


291 


to  give  some  message  to  Marion,  then  again  to  look  into  Everard’s 
study  and  see  how  he  was  getting  on ; then  at  last  he  issued  from 
beneath  the  light  colonnade  before  his  door,  and  set  his  face  toward 
the  hospital.  He  had  not  left  the  close  when  a messenger  from  the 
hospital  met  him,  and  gave  the  dean  a note,  which  he  opened  with 
trembling  fingers.  It  was  to  inform  him  that  Alma  was  dead. 

He  turned  swiftly  back,  and  did  not  stop  till  he  reached  home, 
entered  his  study,  and  locked  the  door ; then  he  threw  himself  into 
a chair,  laid  his  arms  on  the  table,  and,  letting  his  face  fall  upon 
them,  burst  into  tears  and  sobbed  heavily  for  some  timb.  Some- 
thing had  turned  up,  after  all,  and  he  was  spared  the  horror  of 
that  dreaded  interview,  and  could  only  hope  that  Alma’s  secret  had 
died  with  her. 

He  did  not  leave  his  study  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  cathe- 
dral, which  he  did  with  a sense  of  unspeakable  relief.  The  reaction 
after  last  night’s  agony  and  to-day’s  conflict  made  him  see  every- 
thing in  the  brightest  colors,  and  a delicious  languor  fell  upon  his 
wearied  brain,  a languor  so  deep  that  he  felt  incapable  of  rousing 
himself  to  the  eflPort  of  preaching.  His  was,  however,  one  of  those 
finely  strung,  nervous  natures  which  respond  to  the  will  as  a thor- 
oughbred horse  does  to  the  whip,  and  do  what  is  required  of  them 
in  spite  of  exhaustion  up  to  the  last  gasp;  and  when  the  brief 
prayers  were  ended,  and  the  great  volume  of  men’s  voices  rolled  out 
the  hymn  before  the  sermon,  he  pulled  himself  together  and  as- 
cended the  pulpit  with  his  accustomed  air  of  reverent  dignity : and, 
having  turned  up  the  gas-beads  at  the  desk  and  placed  his  manu- 
script conveniently,  sent  a piercing,  comprehensive  glance  all  round 
the  vast  building  and  over  the  wide  sea  of  rough  and  earnest  faces 
which  flooded  it,  as  if  taking  the  measure  of  the  human  material 
spread  out,  plastic  and  receptive,  before  him. 

The  sight  inspired  him,  and  sent  a thrill  through  every  fiber  of 
his  being  ; for  his  was  one  of  those  magnetic  natures  whose  strong 
attractive  power  over  masses  is  in  direct  proportion  to  the  stimulat- 
ing power  of  masses  upon  themselves.  He  could  not  preach  to  empty 
benches,  but,  when  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a multitude, 
be  threw  his  own  personality  into  it  in  such  a manner  that  he  be- 
came, as  it  were,  a part  of  his  audience,  and  made  it  a part  of  him- 
self, so  that  his  own  emotions  thrilled  his  hearers,  and  theirs  reacted 
upon  him.  This  was  one  reason  why  the  sermons  Everard  thought 
so  commonplace  when  printed  had  such  a living  force  when  spoken» 


292 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


Everard,  who  was  so  placed  by  a cluster  of  pillars  as  to  be  half 
shielded  by  them,  advanced  his  head  and  gazed  over  his  hymn-book ; 
so  that  he  could  see  the  preacher  without  much  of  his  own  face 
being  seen,  and  his  first  glance  at  the  face,  islanded  from  the  dusk 
in  the  ruddy  glow  of  gaslight,  told  him  that  he  must  have  recog- 
nized Cyril  anywhere,  and  set  his  heart  beating  vehemently  with  a 
mixture  of  love  and  hate. 

At  forty-three  Dean  Maitland  was  in  his  fullest  prime ; the  years 
had  ripened  instead  of  wasting  and  crushing  him,  as  they  had  Ever- 
ard. The  dark  brown  hair  waved  as  gracefully  as  in  his  youth 
over  his  broad,  clear  brow,  while  the  few  silver  threads  in  it  were 
unseen  ; the  finely  cut,  closely  shaven  features  were  but  little  sharp- 
ened in  outline ; the  light  blue  eyes  were  more  sunken,  and  they 
glowed  with  an  intenser  radiance.  The  old  face  was  there,  but  the 
expression  was  altered  ; there  was  a hard  austerity  about  the  mouth 
when  in  repose  that  verged  upon  cruelty,  though  no  one  who  had 
ever  seen  those  fine  lips  curve  into  their  winning  smile  when  speak- 
ing could  accuse  them  of  anything  harsher  than  a severe  purity 
quite  in  character  with  the  man’s  writings  and  his  calling,  and  dur- 
ing the  most  impassioned  glances  of  the  wonderfully  expressive  eyes 
they  had  a certain  gleam  which  suggested  the  quaint  and  quiet  hu- 
mor which  made  the  dean  so  delightful  in  society. 

Yet,  over  all  the  face  and  in  the  whole  bearing,  Everard  saw  an 
expression  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  which  he  could  not  ana- 
lyze, but  which  struck  him  with  keen  pain,  and  called  to  his  mind 
Milton’s  description  of  the  fallen  seraph  on  whose  faded  cheek  sate 
care. 

All  that  evening  Everard’s  mind  was  haunted  by  the  image  of 
the  fallen  angel,  once  the  brightest  of  the  sons  of  morning,  weighted 
with  his  unutterable  woe,  and  yearning  for  the  lost  glory  that  could 
never  more  be  his. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  closing  notes  of  the  hymn  died  away  in 
the  long  and  lingering  cadences  of  the  organ,  the  great  congregation 
seated  itself  with  a subdued  rustle  and  murmur,  and  the  dean,  in 
ins  magnificent  voice  and  pure  enunciation,  gave  out  his  text. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


293 


CHAPTER  lY. 

The  voice  which  had  been  so  full  of  music  in  Cyril  Maitland’s 
youth  had  now  become  not  only  an  instrument  of  great  compass  and 
rich  tone,  but  it  was  played  by  an  artist  who  was  a perfect  master 
of  his  craft.  It  was  said  of  the  Bishop  of  Belminster  that  he  could 
pronounce  the  mystic  word  “ Mesopotamia  ” in  such  a manner  as 
to  affect  his  auditors  to  tears ; but  of  tlie  dean  it  might  be  averred 
that  his  pronunciation  of  “Mesopotamia”  caused  the  listeners’ 
hearts  to  vibrate  with  every  sorrow  and  every  joy  they  had  ever 
known,  all  in  the  brief  space  of  time  occupied  by  the  utterance  of 
that  affecting  word.  Everard  had  heard  this  saying  in  Belminster, 
and  knew  well  what  Cyril’s  voice  was  of  old,  but  he  was  quite  un- 
prepared for  the  tremendous  rush  of  emotion  that  overwhelmed  him 
when  the  dean  opened  his  clear-cut  lips  and  said,  with  the  pathos 
the  words  demanded,  “We  took  sweet  counsel  together,  and  walked 
in  the  house  of  God  as  friends.” 

He  then  paused,  as  his  custom  was,  to  let  the  words  sink  deeply 
into  his  hearer’s  minds  before  he  began  his  discourse,  and  Everard’s 
very  life  seemed  to  pause  with  him,  while  he  felt  himself  shaken  in 
his  innermost  depths.  Then  he  remembered  that  Cyril’s  passionate 
sermon  upon  innocence  was  the  last  he  had  heard  from  him.  Since 
that  he  had  heard  only  the  discourses  of  prison  chaplains  to  an  ac- 
companiment of  whispered  blasphemy  and  filth.  Once  more  he  saw 
the  little  church  at  Malbourne,  the  beautiful  young  priest  offering  the 
chalice  to  the  kneeling  people  in  the  wintry  sun-gleams ; 6nce  more 
he  saw  the  shadowy  figure  in  the  afternoon  dusk,  uttering  his  ago- 
nized appeals  to  the  startled  listeners  below. 

“Yes,  my  brothers,”  said  the  dean  (he  eschewed  “ brethren,”  as 
both  conventional  and  obsolete,  and  dwelt  with  a loving  intonation 
on  the  word  “ brothers  ”),  “ Jesus  Christ  and  Judas  took  sweet  coun- 
sel together,  and  walked  in  the  house  of  God  as  friends,,  strange  as 
it  appears  to  us,  difficult  as  it  is  to  realize  a fact  so  startling,  since 
in  all  the  whole  range  of  the  world’s  tragic  history  there  has  never 
been  found  a character  so  vile  as  the  one  or  so  spotless  as  the  other. 

“Yet  they  were  not  only  friends,  but  they  actually  took  sweet 
counsel  together.  Picture  that  to  yourselves,  dear  brothers : Christ 
had  pleasant  conversations  with  Judas,  asked  his  opinion  on  high 
and  holy  subjects,  listened  to  his  words,  as  you  and  I listen  to  the 


294 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


words  of  those  dear  and  near  to  us.  Was  there  ever  a more  strange- 
ly  assorted  pair?  And  yet  ” — the  dean  paused,  and  sent  the  pene- 
trating radiance  of  his  gaze  sweeping  over  the  mass  of  upturned 
faces  before  him — “it  may  be  that  even  now,  to-night,  with  these 
eyes  of  mine,  I see  among  you,  my  brothers,  in  this  very  house  of 
God,  anotlier  pair  strangely  like  that  mentioned  by  David  in  his 
prophecy — some  loyal  follower  of  Christ  taking  sweet  counsel  and 
walking  as  a friend  with  such  a one  as  Judas,  money-loving,  ambi- 
tious, false;  musing  even  now,  with  the  echoes  of  psalms  and  holy 
words  in  his  ears,  how  he  may  betray  the  friend  who  trusts  and 
loves  him.  Alas,  my  brothers,  how  often  is  such  a companionship 
seen;  and  how  often,  bow  sadly  often,  is  the  guileless  friend  whose 
trust  and  love  is  betrayed  a woman!  ‘Nay,’  I hear  you  say,  ‘ we 
have  our  faults,  we  don’t  pretend  to  be  saints,  but  we  are  not  Ju- 
dases.’ Dare  you  say  that  you  are  no  Judas?  ” he  added,  in  sharp, 
incisive  tones,  while  his  glance  seemed  to  single  some  individual 
from  the  throng  and  to  pierce  to  his  very  marrow — “you,  who  sold 
your  wife’s  happiness  and  your  children’s  bread  for  a pot  of  beer? 
or  you?”  and  here  the  penetrating  gaze  seemed  to  single  out 
another,  while  the  preacher  launched  at  him  another  sharp  denun- 
ciation of  some  homely,  everyday  vice,  using  the  most  direct  and 
forcible  words  the  language  contains  to  give  vigor  to  his  censures, 
till  the  cold  sweat  stood  upon  rugged  brows,  some  women  wept 
furtively,  and  the  dean’s  keen  glance  perceived  the  inward  trem- 
blings of  many  a self- convicted  sinner. 

The  preacher  then  observed  that  the  popular  conception  of  Judas 
as  a truculent  thief  whose  ruffianly  character  was  ill  concealed  by 
his  thorough-paced  hypocrisy  was  probably  false,  and  pointed  out 
that  Judas  must  have  appeared  to  the  world  in  which  he  lived  a 
highly  respectable  and  well-conducted  person,  if  not  a very  saint. 
Nay,  it  was  his  own  opinion  that  Judas  was  actually  a very  superior 
being,  a m.an  of  lofty  aspirations  and  pure  life,  a patriot — one  who 
looked  ardently  for  the  promised  Messiah,  and  had  sufficient  faith 
to  recognize  him  in  the  son  of  the  Nazarene  carpenter.  Why,  he 
asked  his  auditors,  if  he  had  not  been  all  this,  should  he  have  joined 
that  little  band  of  obscure  men,  those  peasants  and  fishers,  those 
men  of  austere  morality  and  lofty  converse,  who  had  left  all  to  follow 
the  young  peasant  Prophet  who  had  not  even  a roof  to  shelter  Him  ? 

He  drew  a beautiful  sketch  of  the  sweet  and  simple  brother- 
hood of  disciples  clustering  about  the  Master,  who  seemed  to  have 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


295 


inspired  them  up  to  the  moment  of  the  crucifixion  more  with  ten- 
der and  compassionate  human  devotion  than  with  awe  and  worship, 
and  w'ith  whom  they  lived  in  such  close  and  intimate  communion, 
taking  sweet  counsel  together  on  the  loftiest  subjects,  and  yet  shar- 
ing the  most  trivial  events  of  everyday  life ; and  asked  his  hearers 
if  they  thought  a mere  money-lover  and  traitor  could  have  endured 
such  a fellowship,  or  been  endured  by  it.  But  if  Judas  were  indeed 
worthy  to  be  chosen  as  one  of  that  small  and  select  band  (and  it 
was  an  undoubted  fact  that  he  was  thought  worthy,  and  tenderly 
loved  up  to  the  last  by  his  Divine  Master),  how  was  it  that  he  fell 
into  so  black  a sin,  and  stamped  his  name  upon  all  time  as  a symbol 
of  the  utmost  degradation  of  which  man  is  capable? 

‘•Ah!  my  brothers,”  said  the  dean,  “he  was  a hypocrite,  but  so 
consummate  a hypocrite  that  he  deceived  himself.  He  knew  that 
he  loved  God  and  his  Master  and  Friend,  but  he  did  not  know,  or 
would  not  know,  that  he  loved  mammon — the  riches  of  this  world 
and  its  pomps  and  vanities,  its  fleeting  honors  and  transient  foam- 
flake  of  fame — better.  The  bag  naturally  fell  to  him  because  it  had 
no  attractions  for  the  disciples  whose  hearts  were  set  upon  heavenly 
treasure  only.  The  renown  of  the  miracles  he  witnessed  spread  so 
that  idlers  flocked  as  to  a show  to  see  them ; and  this  and  the  hope 
of  the  revival  of  the  Jewish  monarchy  which  filled  the  minds  of  all 
the  disciples  till  after  Calvary  stimulated  the  man’s  ambition,  which 
he  probably  mistook  for  devout  zeal  till  that  terrible  hour,  when  the 
contempt  and  hatred  which  fell  upon  his  Teacher  and  Friend  made 
him  desert  the  falling  King  in  his  disappointed  ambition,  and  finally 
betray  Him. 

“ I charge  you,  my  brothers,”  continued  the  dean,  with  a passion 
that  shook  his  audience,  “that  you  beware  of  self-deception.  You 
may  deceive  others — yea,  those  who  love  you  most  dearly  and  live 
with  you  most  intimately,  who  sit  by  your  hearth  and  break  bread 
at  your  table,  through  long,  long  years  you  may  deceive  them  ; and 
you  may  deceive  yourselves — you  may  devote  all  to  God,  and  yet 
keep  back  one  darling  sin,  one  cherished  iniquity,  that  is  poisoning 
the  very  springs  of  your  being,  like  the  young  man  who  made  the 
great  refusal,  like  Ananias  and  Sapphira;  but  remember,  you  can  not 
deceive  God!*' — here  the  preacher  paused  and  choked  back  a rising 
sob — “ all  is  open  in  his  sight  ” — here  the  dean  trembled,  and  his 
voice  took  a tone  of  heart-broken  anguish — “ There,  my  brothers, 
up  there  is  no  shuffling.” 


296 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


There  was  silence  for  some  moments  in  the  vast  building,  broken 
only  by  the  deep  or  quick  breathing  of  the  hushed,  attentive  multi- 
tude, and  the  great  secret  of  the  dean’s  power  dashed  swiftly  upon 
Everard’s  mind.  It  was  the  fact  that  the  thoughts  he  was  uttering 
were  not  his  own;  tliat  he  was  possessed  and  carried  away  by  some 
irresistible  power,  which  forced  him  to  speak  what  was  perhaps 
pain  and  grief  to  him,  what  was  utterly  beyond  his  will.  A strange 
power,  truly,  which  made  Ezekiel  pronounce  his  own  dire  mis- 
chance, and  predict  the  taking  away  the  desire  of  his  eyes  for 
w^hich  he  dared  not  mourn;  which  made  Balaam  bless  when  he 
tried  to  curse ; and  caused  Isaiah  to  foretell  in  torrents  of  dery  elo- 
quence things  he  desired  in  vain  to  look  into — a great  and  awful 
gift  when  given  in  even  the  smallest  measure,  a gift  called  in  olden 
times  prophecy,  in  these  genius. 

A deep  awe  and  compassion  fell  upon  Everard  as  he  looked  upon 
the  agitated  and  inspired  orator,  whose  soul  was  so  deeply  stained 
with  guilt,  and  he  thought  of  the  disobedient  prophet  and  of  other 
sinful  men,  singled  out,  in  spite,  of  their  frailty,  for  the  supreme 
honor  of  being  the  instruments  of  the  Divine  Will. 

‘AVatch  against  secret  sin,”  continued  the  preacher,  in  a low 
and  earnest  but  distinct  and  audible  voice.  Pray  for  broken  hearts, 
failure,  misery,  anything  but  the  gratified  ambition,  the  fuldlled 
heart’s  desire  which  makes  it  impossible  for  you  to  renounce  all 
and  follow  Christ.”  Then  he  spoke  of  the  remorse  of  Judas  and 
his  miserable  end ; said  that  even  he  would  have  found  instant  for- 
giveness had  he  sought  or  desired  it.  But  he  probably  did  not  think 
it  would  be  given,  since  his  own  love  was  not  large  enough  for  such 
a forgiveness,  and  he  thus  shrank  from  the  only  possible  healing  for 
him.  “My  brothers,”  he  said,  in  a voice  which  touched  the  very 
core  of  Everard’s  heart,  “the  man  we  think  most  meanly  of  is  the 
man  we  liave  wronged.” 

He  pointed  out  the  diiference  between  repentance  and  remorse ; 
drew  a vivid  picture  of  the  latter,  which  he  said  was  the  “ sorrow 
of  sorrows  and  the  worst  torture  of  hell.”  He  said  that  nothing 
earthly  could  soothe  that  pain — not  all  the  riches  of  the  world;  not 
the  esteem  of  men;  not  the  highest  earthly  renown,  or  the  enjoy- 
ment of  beauty,  health,  youth  ; not  all  the  pleasures  of  sense  or  in- 
tellect ; not  the  sweetest  and  purest  treasures  of  human  affection ; 
and  the  voice  in  which  he  said  this  was  so  exquisitely,  so  despair- 
ingly sad,  that  a wave  of  intensest  pity  rushed  over  Everard’s  soul, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


297 


and  a great  sob  rose  in  his  throat,  and  he  knew  that  the  long  agony ' 
of  the  prison  life,  which  had  bowed  his  frame,  broken  his  health, 
and  shattered  his  nerves,  if  not  his  very  intellect,  was  nothing  in 
comparison  with  the  secret  tortures  of  the  successful  man  who 
stood  in  purple  and  fine  linen  before  him. 

“Repent,”  continued  the  dean,  in  a voice  of  agonized  supplica- 
tion, “ while  repentance  is  possible.  Put  away  the  darling  sin, 
whatever  it  may  be,  before  it  is  inextricably  wound  about  your 
heai  t-strings ; remember  that  every  moment’s  delay  makes  the 
heart  harder  and  the  task  more  difiacult.  Cut  off  the  right  hand, 
pluck  out  the  right  eye — ” 

He  broke  olf  abruptly,  turned  pale  to  the  lips,  and  seemed  for  a 
moment  to  fight  for  breath.  “ Oh,  my  God!  ” he  exclaimed  at  last, 
in  low,  agonized,  shuddering  tones,  so  different  from  the  full  voice 
of  impassioned  appeal  he  had  been  Rising  that  they  sent  an  electric 
shock  through  the  hushed  listeners,  while  the  chill  drops  beaded  his 
brow,  and  he  gazed  fixedly  with  horror-struck  eyes  before  him,  like 
one  compelled  by  some  irresistible  spell  to  gaze  on  what  his  soul 
most  abhors. 

It  was  the  most  acute  moment  in  Everard’s  life,  one  to  be  re- 
membered when  all  else  had  faded — the  moment  when  betrayer 
and  betrayed  met  face  to  face,  gazing  into  each  other’s  eyes  under 
a fascination  that  each  strove  vainly  to  resist.  Under  the  spell  of 
the  dean’s  eloquence,  Everard  had  gradually  advanced  his  head 
from  the  shelter  of  the  pillars,  the  gas-beaded  girdle  of  which,  in 
the  deepening  of  the  summer  twilight,  cast  a strong  illumination 
upon  his  features,  and  thus  attracted  the  preacher’s  gaze.  That 
awful  meeting  of  glances  seemed  to  Everard  to  endure  for  an  eter- 
nity, during  which  the  breathing  of  the  hushed  congregation  and 
the  casual  stirring  of  a limb  here  and  there  were  distinctly  audible 
in  the  silence. 

Who  shall  say  what  these  two  men,  between  whom  was  so  much 
love  and  such  terrible  wrong,  saw  in  the  eyes  which  had  met  so 
often  in  friendship  in  the  far-ofi*  days,  when  each  trusted  the  other 
so  fully?  Certain  it  is  that  there  was  neither  rebuke  nor  reproach 
in  Everard’s  gaze,  and  that  the  dominant  feeling  in  his  stirred  heart 
was  a desire  to  comfort  the  terrible  misery  in  the  false  friend’s  eyes. 
But  though  there  was  no  reproach  in  the  honest  and  trustful  brown 
eyes — sunken  as  they  were  in  dark  orbits  caused  by  long  suffering 
'—the  bowed,  gaunt  form,  the  haggard,  worn  features,  the  sad 


298 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


look  of  habitnal  hopeless  pain,  the  untimely  gray  hairs  and  aged 
appearance,  struck  into  the  betrayer's  soul  like  so  many  burning 
daggers  tipped  with  poison.  He  remembered  his  friend  as  he  had 
last  seen  him  in  the  beauty  and  vigor  of  early  manhood,  happy, 
hopeful,  full  of  intellect  and  life,  and  glowing  with  generous  feeling, 
and  the  sharp  contrast  revealed  to  him,  in  one  flash,  the  wickedness 
of  his  deed.  There  sat  the  friend  who  had  loved  and  trusted  him. 
marred,  crushed,  and  broken  by  his  own  iniquity. 

He  longed  for  the  massive  pillars  to  crumble  to  ruins,  and  the 
high  stone  roof  to  crash  in  and  hide  him  from  that  terrible  gaze, 
the  more  terrible  because  so  gentle ; he  wished  the  solid  pavement 
to  yawn  and  swallow  him  up.  A burning  pain  was  stabbing  him 
in  the  breast,  the  clusters  of  lights  danced  madly  among  the  shad- 
ows before  him,  the  great  white  sea  of  human  faces  surged  in  heav- 
ing billows  in  his  sight,  and  his  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his 
mouth  when  he  tried  to  speak. 

Long  as  it  seemed  to  those  two  awestruck  gazers,  it  was  in 
reality  but  a few  seconds  before  the  dean  averted  his  gaze  by  a 
strong  effort  and  spoke. 

“I  am  not  well,”  he  said  quietly;  and,  turning,  he  descended 
the  pulpit  and  vanished  among  the  shadows,  while  a canon  present 
said  a final  prayer  and  gave  the  blessing. 

From  the  comments  of  the  congregation  as  they  streamed  out 
beneath  the  avenue  of  lindens,  Everard  gathered  that  it  was  not 
the  first  time  the  dean  had  been  taken  ill  while  preaching,  the 
excitement  of  which  appeared  to  be  too  much  for  his  physical 
strength. 

He  lingered  about  the  cathedral  precincts  in  the  pleasant  sum- 
mer dusk,  through  which  a few  pale  st^rs  were  gleaming  softly,  and 
listened  to  the  conversation  around  him,  gazing  wistfully  at  the 
Deanery,  under  a strong  impulse  to  enter  it.  He  contented  himself, 
however,  with  joining  a little  group  of  working  men,  who,  after  an 
interval,  went  to  the  house  and  inquired  for  the  health  of  the  popu- 
lar preacher,  and  who  were  told  that  the  dean  had  recovered  from 
the  spasmodic  seizure  to  which  he  was  subject,  and  was  now  resting, 

A clergyman  had  passed  out  of  the  cathedral  at  Everard’s  side, 
with  rather  a strange  smile  on  his  face,  and  had  observed  to  a lady 
who  was  with  him,  “ How  did  you  like  the  play?  ” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” she  returned,  with  an  indignant  accent 

“ Well,  did  you  ever  see  a better  actor  than  the  Anglican  Ghry- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


299 


sostom?  ” he  continued,  with  a sarcastic  accent,  which  caused  her 
to  accuse  him  of  professional  jealousy. 

This  man  had  heard  the  last  dying  words  of  Alma  Judkins  a few" 
hours  before. 

Everard  was  so  shaken  by  what  he  experienced  in  the  cathedral 
that  he  could  not  return  to  his  hotel,  where  his  dinner  was  await- 
ing him,  but  walked  rapidly  through  the  dim  streets,  and  climbed 
the  hill  to  breathe  the  free,  fresh  air  of  the  wide  downs,  whence  ne 
saw  the  city,  starred  with  fire-points,  lying  like  a dropped  and 
dimmed  constellation  in  the*  valley  beneath. 

There  he  thought  much,  walking  swiftly  beneath  the  clear,  quiet 
sky,  pale  in  the  June  twilight,  and  gleaming  with  languid  stars, 
until  something  of  the  holy  calm  of  Nature  had  entered  his  breast, 
and  he  returned,  quieted,  yet  full  of  deeply- stirred  feelings,  to  the 
George  Inn. 

Then  he  took  a pen,  and  wrote  as  follows: 

‘‘Dear  Cyril:  I need  not  tell  you  that  I was  in  the  cathedral 
to-night,  since  I saw  with  what  pain  you  recognized  me.  You 
possess  the  great  secret  of  eloquence,  earnestness  and  genuine  feel- 
ing, and  your  sermon  revealed  to  me  how  terribly  you  have  suf- 
fered. You  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I know  all,  I did 
not  suspect  it  until  that  poor  girl  swore  against  me  in  the  witness- 
box,  when  the  whole  truth  fiashed  upon  me,  and  every  little  inci- 
dent connected  with  that  sad  affair  became  clear  and  comprehensi- 
ble. That  was  the  saddest  moment  in  my  life,  far  more  bitter  than 
the  moment  of  my  conviction  or  that  of  my  severe  sentence.  The 
man  never  lived  who  was  dearer  to  me  than  you,  and  I revered 
you  as  a man  reveres  his  own  conscience.  I thought  then  that 
there  could  be  no  suffering  to  equal  mine,  but  to-night  I learned 
from  your  own  lips,  my  poor  Cyril,  that  there  is  a deeper  anguish 
still,  an  anguish  that  you  have  borne  secretly  for  eighteen  mortal 
years  beneath  a semblance  of  outward  prosperity.  How  shall  I 
comfort  you?  If  my  forgiveness  can  avail  anything,  it  is  yours 
fully  and  freely.  Eemorse,  as  you  said  to-night,  is  wholly  poison- 
ous ; it  is  futile  to  lament  the  unreturning  past.  Dear  Cyril,  let 
us  manfully  face  the  consequences,  and  cease  bewailing  what  can 
not  be  mended.  Much  peace  and  usefulness,  yes,  and  much  hap- 
piness, may  yet  be  yours.  I have  suffered  not  only  the  penalty,  but 
an  exceeding  penalty  for  that  tragic  moment  in  the  wood — against 


300 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


my  will,  it  is  true ; but  now  I ask  you,  who  believe  in  vicarious 
sacrifice,  to  take  those  eighteen  years  as  a free  gift,  and  remember 
that,  as  far  as  this  life  is  concerned,  that  poor  fellow’s  death  has 
been  amply  atoned  for.  I see  that  you  are  struggling  with  your- 
self to  confess  and  make  atonement  before  the  world,  but  the  time 
has  gone  by  for  that,  and  it  could  avail  nothing  now.  Lilian  has 
always  been  convinced  of  my  innocence,  and  nearly  all  others  to 
whom  my  good  name  was  dear  are  gone.  I have  lived  through  tlie 
obloquy  as  far  as  the  world  is  concerned ; the  revelation  of  the 
truth  could  only  bring  sorrow  unspeakable  to  many,  and  no  help  to 
me.  Besides,  you  have  unusual  gifts;  you  have  acquired  a position 
and  a character  which  give  you  singular  power  over  men;  you 
ought  not  to  trifle  with  these.  If  I am  to  be  useful  to  my  fellow- 
creatures,  it  must  be  in  quite  other  ways.  But  you,  with  your 
remarkable  gifts  and  the  great  position  you  have  achieved,  have 
also  incurred  a great  responsibility,  and  the  very  failings  and  faults 
which  have  caused  such  pain  have  led  you  through  such  unusual 
paths  of  spiritual  experience  as  may  give  you  unusual  power  in 
dealing  with  the  sickness  of  men’s  souls.  You  have  told  men  the 
terrors  of  remorse;  tell  them  now  the  peace  of  repentance,  the  joy 
of  forgiveness.  If  you  need  a penance,  take  that  of  silence  on  that 
one  sad  subject.  Let  that  lie  between  you  and  me  as  a bond  of 
friendship,  and  let  it  be  heard  in  the  ears  of  men  no  more;  and  let 
us  meet  again  on  the  old  pleasant  footing.  I have  seen  and  spoken 
with  your  son,  and  heard  his  beautiful  voice,  and  I am  glad  that 
he  bears  our  name.  May  Heaven’s  blessing  and  peace  be  yours  for 
ever ! Your  friend,  Heney  Eveeaed.” 

It  was  not  until  the  following  morning  that  the  dean  received 
this  letter,  along  with  many  others,  at  breakfast. 

Physical  pain  had  mercifully  come  to  his  relief  in  the  moment 
of  extreme  agony  in  the  cathedral,  and  so  benumbed  and  clouded 
his  mental  faculties.  It  had  further  obliged  him  to  use  a prescrip- 
tion of  his  physician’s  intended  for  such  seizures,  and  of  an  anaes- 
thetic nature,  so  that  he  had  passed  the  night  in  artificial  slumber, 
if  that  could  be  called  slumber  which  was  animated  by  a continual 
torturing  consciousness  of  the  dreaded  face  he  had  seen  in  ttie  cathe- 
dral, and  an  unspeakable  terror  of  some  impending  descent  into  yet 
greater  misery. 

Yet  he  awoke  in  the  morning  so  permeated  with  this  dread  com 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


301 


{rfciousness  that  he  had  not  to  face  the  shock  of  emerging  from  the 
balm  of  oblivion  to  a new  and  unfamiliar  grief,  the  shock  that  greets 
us,  on  the  threshold  of  a new  day,  with  such  a numbing  power  in 
the  beginning  of  a fresh  sorrow.  Of  course,  he  had  contemplated 
the  possibility  of  such  a meeting  as  that  of  the  previous  evening, 
but  he  had  no  idea  it  was  so  near,  since  Lilian  had  long  ceased  to 
give  him  any  intelligence  of  Everard,  and  also,  with  his  characteris- 
tic unreason,  he  hoped  something  might  in  the  mean  time  turn  up. 
Everard’s  death  was  one  of  these  bright  possibilities. 

He  (lid  not  recognize  the  handwriting,  changed  as  it  was  by  long 
disuse  and  the  stitfening  of  the  joints  resulting  from  habitual  hard 
labor,  and  ran  rapidly  through  the  pile  of  letters,  taking  the  known 
correspondents  first.  It  was  only  when  he  had  opened  the-  envel- 
ope, and  read  the  familiar  commencement  of  “ Hear  Cyril,”  that 
the  writing  struck  a chord  in  his  memory,  and  he  turned  with  a 
sick  dread  to  the  signature. 

Marion  saw  him  turn  livid,  and  then,  when  he  glanced  rapidly 
over  the  contents,  fi^nsh  a deep  red.  Then  he  laid  the  letter  aside, 
and  went  on  quietly  with  his  breakfast,  joining,  in  his  accustomed 
manner,  in  the  household  chat ; but  he  ate  little,  which  Marion  at- 
tributed to  his  recent  seizure  and  the  anodyne  he  had  taken. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  he  went  to  his  study,  giving  orders 
to  Benson,  as  he  frequently  did,  that  he  was  on  no  account  to  be 
disturbed  till  luncheon,  at  which  meal  he  appeared  as  usual. 

Marion  observed,  and  remembered  afterward,  that  he  was 
extremely  pale  and  very  quiet,  only  addressing  herself  and  her 
brother  occasionally,  and  then  with  unusual  gentleness.  He  was 
always  gentle  to  them,  for  he  was  a most  tender  father,  passionately 
fopd  of  his  children,  and  having  the  art,  by  virtue  of  his  winning 
manner  and  personal  charm,  to  keep  them  in  absolute  discipline, 
while  indulging  them  to  the  utmost,  so  that,  without  ever  using  a 
harsh  word  to  them,  his  will  was  their  law,  and  they  obeyed  him 
without  knowing  it;  but  to-day  his  gentleness  amounted  to  ten- 
derness, and  his  voice  and  glances,  when  he  spoke  to  them,  were 
like  a caress. 

“ Well,  Marry,”  he  said,  breaking  into  a conversation  between 
the  children  and  their  tutor  and  governess,  which  he  had  evidently 
not  heard,  “ what  do  you  say  to  running  down  to  Portsmouth  to 
your  Uncle  Keppel’s  with  Everard  for  a few  days  ? ” 

“Nothing,  papa,”  she  replied,  with  her  pretty  spoilt  air. 


302 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


“Would  you  not  like  to  go,  dear?”  he  asked.  “The  sea  is 
charming  just  now,  and  all  the  naval  gayeties  are  in  full  swing. 
The  new  ironclad  is  waiting  for  you  to  inspect  and  help  launch  her, 
and  your  cousins  are  all  at  home,  and  Everard  would  enjoy  the  milr 
tary  bands  and  the  bathing  ; eh,  laddie  ? ” 

“Well,  I suppose  it  will  be  a fair  time  to  go,  but  how  can  you 
get  away?”  said  Marion,  when  her  father  replied  that  he  did  not 
intend  to  accompany  them. 

“Then,  we  don’t  want  to  go,”  she  returned;  and  Everaid  in- 
dorsed her  words  heartily. 

“You  don’t  get  tired  of  your  old  father  ?”  he  asked,  his  eyes 
clouding  and  his  voice  quivering  a little. 

“ There  never  was  such  a daddy-sick  pair,”  laughed  Miss  Mac- 
kenzie. 

“ But  you  can  not  always  be  tied  on  to  the  old  father,”  said  the 
^ean,  pinching  Marion’s  soft  cheek.  “ Come  now,  suppose  you 
pack  up  your  smartest  bonnets  and  frocks,  and  Everard’s  violin, 
and  run  down  this  afternoon.  Your  Aunt  Keppel  will  be  at  the 
station  to  meet  you  at  six.” 

“ To-day  ? Oh,  papa ! what  can  possess  you  ? ” cried  Marion. 

“Oh,  not  till  Monday ! ” pleaded  Everard.  “I  am  to  take  a solo 
to-morrow  afternoon.” 

“Never  mind  the  solo,  lad,”  said  his  father,  looking  wistfully  on 
the  boy’s  sightless  face.  “ Dr.  Rydal  will  recover  from  the  shock  ; 
a little  adversity  will  do  him  good,  autocrat  that  he  is.  You  will 
go,  darlings,  by  the  4.30  train.  And,  if  the  bonnets  and  frocks  are 
not  smart  enough  for  fashionable  Southsea,  you  can  get  what  you 
want  there.  Here  is  a ciieck.  Marry.  And  there,  Everard,  is  a 
sovereign  for  you  to  buy  toffee  with.  Herr  Obermann  is  tired  of 
his  unmanageable  pupil,  and  will  be  glad  of  a holiday  to  rummage 
over  old  parchments  with  Canon  Drake ; ” and  the  dean  rose  from 
the  table  with  a look  that  said  that  the  business  was  concluded,  and 
strolled  languidly  into  the  garden,  Everard’s  hand  in  his. 

“ Miss  Mackenzie,”  said  Marion,  remaining  behind  a minute, 
“ there  is  something  unusual  about  papa  to-day.  Do  you  think  I 
ought  to  leave  him  ? He  ate  nothing ; he  looks  ill.” 

“He  is  always  languid  and  weak  after  one  of  his  attacks,  Marry. 
The  great  thing  is  not  to  worry  him,  and,  of  course,  he  has  a great 
deal  on  his  mind  now.  Perhaps,  until  the  bishopric  business  is  quite 
decided,  he  would  rather  have  you  out  of  the  way.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


303 


Miss  Mackenzie’s  words  were  reasonable,  and  Marion  felt  that 
she  must  abide  by  them,  and  yet  she  could  not  conquer  the  vague 
disquiet  she  felt  on  her  father’s  account.  She  followed  him  into 
the  old-fashioned,  red- wailed  garden  with  a solicitude  hitherto  un- 
known in  her  spoilt-child  existence,  and  watched  him  narrowly. 

“You  are  becoming  a perfect  ogre,  daddy,  hustling  us  off  in  this 
despotic  manner;  now,  isn’t  he,  Everard?”  she  said,  joining  them. 

“A  regular  tyrant,’’  laughed  the  boy.  “But,  I say,  why  can’t 
you  come  with  us,  papa?  It  is  on  your  way  to  Osborne.” 

“Of  course  it  is;  how  delightful!  ” added  Marion. 

“lam  not  going  to  Osborne,”  replied  the  dean. 

“ Not  going  to  dine  at  Osborne  to-night?  ” exclaimed  the  chil- 
dren, who  knew  that  a royal  invitation  is  also  a command.  “ Why, 
what  will  the  Queen  say  ? Will  she  send  you  to  the  Tower?  ” asked 
Everard,  his  mind  filled  with  visions  of  scaffolds  and  axes. 

“Never  mind  the  Queen,”  said  the  dean,  sitting  down  on  a gar- 
den seat  and  placing  the  boy  between  his  knees,  and  passing  his  arm 
round  the  girl  with  a grave  and  preoccupied  air,  which  surprised 
his  daughter,  whom  he  was  wont  perpetually  to  tease  and  banter  in 
a way  that  she  thought  delightful.  Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a few 
minutes,  and  then  the  dean  asked  the  children  if  they  were  happy, 
and  they  replied  heartily  in  the  affirmative,  adding  that  they  were 
always  happy  with  him,  and  thought  all  pleasures  dull  without  him. 

“I  have  tried  to  make  you  happy,”  he  said,  in  his  rich,  pathetic 
tones;  “ I have  wished  so  much  to  give  you  a happy  youth  to  look 
back  upon.  My  own  youth  was  very,  very  happy,  and  I have 
always  been  so  thankful  for  it ; it  is  a possession  for  a whole  lifetime, 
in  spite  of  the  sorrow  with  which  the  world  is  filled,  and  which  we 
must  all  plunge  into  sooner  or  later.  Your  father  is  a sinful  man, 
dear  children,  but  he  has  tried  to  be  good  to  you — that  has  been  his 
greatest  earthly  aim.  And  you  have  been  dutiful  and  affectionate. 
I am  a successful  man,  and, have  been  able  to  give  you  a pleasant 
home,  but  who  can  say  if  it  may  last?  Trouble  may  come — we  may 
be  parted.  Well,  dears,  if  that  time  comes,  think. gently  of  the 
father  who,  whatever  his  faults  were,  earnestly  sought  his  children’s 
happiness.” 

The  children  protested  with*'  half-frightened  affection ; but  he 
scarcely  heeded  them,  and,  gently  unwinding  their  clasping  hands, 
withdrew,  unable  to  speak  for  tears,  and,  waving  them  off  with  a 
gesture  of  command,  went  back  to  his  study. 

20 


304 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


“Oh,  Marry!”  cried  Everard,  “something  dreadful  has  hap- 
pened. Perhaps  the  Queen  is  angry.  What  can  it  be?  ” 

Marion  comforted  him  with  all  the  wisdom  of  her  sixteen  years, 
saying  that  there  was  probably  some  hitch  about  the  bishopric,  and 
this  had  saddened  their  father. 

He  took  them  to  the  station  and  saw  them  off,  arranging  all  he 
could  for  their  comfort  and  security,  and  embraced  them  on  the 
public  platform  with  unusual  tenderness,  apparently  oblivious  of  all 
the  bustle  and  noise  going  on  around  him.  He  put  a basket  of  fruit 
into  their  hands  to  refresh  them  on  the  road  when  they  were  in  the 
carriage,  and  then  stood  on  the  step  and  kissed  and  blessed  them 
solemnly  once  more,  and,  w^hen  the  train  finally  moved  off,  stood 
wistfully  gazing  until  the  last  flutter  of  Marion’s  handkerchief  was 
invisible  in  the  distance. 

All  her  life  Marion  remembered  his  yearning  gaze  and  his  pale, 
sad  face,  as  he  stood  without  a trace  of  his  usual  playful  animation 
when  in  their  presence,  a solitary  black  figure,  watching  them  with 
his  hand  shading  his  eyes,  until  the  distance  had  swallowed  them 
up. 

“ Can  you  see  him  still?  ” asked  the  blind  boy. 

“ Not  now ; he  is  lost,”  replied  Marion ; and  she  burst  into  tears 
under  the  pressure  of  an  indefinable  sadness. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

Eteeaed  slept  like  an  infant  after  writing  his  letter,  and  rose 
full  of  eager  hope  and  trembling  anticipation  on  the  morrow,  re- 
membering that  the  day  had  at  last  dawned  when  he  was  to  meet 
Lilian  once  more. 

He  might  have  seen  her  many  times  during  his  imprisonment, 
but  he  could  not  endure  that  she  should  submit  to  the  restraints 
necessarily  imposed  on  convicts’  visitors,  or  that  she  should  see  him 
in  his  humiliation,  and  had  thus  declined  her  offered  visits.  He 
could  not  even  bear  to  go  to  her  straight  from  prison;  he  felt  that 
some  days  at  least  were  necessary  to  carry  off  the  prison  air,  and 
take  away  the  contamination  of  those  hated  walls.  He  looked  in  a 
glass,  and  sighed  deeply,  thinking  that  he  saw  plainly  written  all 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


305 


over  him,  ‘‘ ticket- of-leave  man.”  As  for  his  hands,  which  he  had 
treated  with  unguents  and  cosmetics,  and  kept  night  and  day  in 
gloves,  he  looked  at  them  in  despair.  The  flattened  finger-tips, 
broken  and  discolored  nails,  distorted  joints,  and  horn-hardened 
palms  were  beyond  redemption.  It  seemed  to  his  sensitive  fancy 
that  all  the  world  must  know  as  well  as  he  that  his  peculiar  gait 
was  the  result  of  the  irons  he  had  worn  after  his  brief  escape,  and 
the  sick  thought  caine  to  him  that  his  intellect  must  be  as  much 
marred  as  his  body.  He  felt  utterly  ruined. 

He  lingered  about  Belminster  till  the  afternoon,  secretly  cherish-- 
ing  a hope  that  Cyril  might  send  some  letter  or  message  to  the 
George  for  him ; but  nothing  came,  and  he  took  his  seat  in  the  train 
with  a disappointed  heart. 

A clergyman,  in  a round  felt  hat  with  a rosette,  and  the  longest 
of  coats,  was  just  stepping  out  of  the  down  train  as  Everard  was 
stepping  in.  They  came  face  to  face,  and  Everard  stepped  back  to 
allow  the  other  to  pass,  thus  gaining  a full  and  prolonged  view  of 
his  features,  while  the  clergyman  passed  gravely  on,  carelessly 
scanning  Everard’s  face  without  a gleam  of  recognition  in  his  own. 
But  Everard  knew  him  at  once.  It  was  his  brother  George. 

Everard  got  in,  the  doors  banged,  the  train  moved  ofi*,  and  he 
found  that  his  carriage  was  shared  by  an  elderly  man  with  a clever, 
keen  face,  which  seemed  strangely  familiar  to  him,  though  he  could 
not  identify  it,  search  his  memory  as  he  would.  The  old  gentleman 
apparently  had  the  same  degree  of  memory  for  Everard,  since,  after 
his  first  searching  glance  at  him  when  he  entered  the  carriage,  he 
kept  giving  him  furtive  and  puzzled  looks  over  his  papers.  Present- 
ly the  papers  of  both  gentlemen  were  laid  aside,  and  the  stranger 
moved  over  to  the  corner  seat  opposite  Everard,  evidently  prepared 
for  a friendly  chat,  and  made  some  remark  on  the  line  over  which 
they  were  passing.  His  voice  sent  a strange  tremor  through  Ever= 
ard’s  too-seusitive  nerves,  and,  after  a brief  interchange  of  common- 
place, he  told  his  ms-d-vis  that  his  face  and  voice  were  familiar  to 
him,  but  that  he  was  unable  to  recall  his  name. 

“ You  are  associated  in  my  mind  with  something  of  a distressing 
nature,”  he  added. 

“I  was  just  about  to  observe  the  same  with  regard  to  you,” 
replied  his  new-found  acquaintance,  “ save  that  you  are  associated 
with  nothing  distressing  to  me.  To  tell  the  truth,  my  features  are 
associated  with  distressing  circumstances  in  a great  many  people’s 


306 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


minds,”  he  added,  laughing.  “My  name  is  Manhy,  Sir  William 
Manby,”  he  explained,  with  the  air  of  one  uttering  a rich  joke. 

“I  now  remember  you  perfectly,”  returned  Everard,  quietly, 
“ though  I can  not  claim  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance.  My 
name  is  Everard,  Henry  Oswald  Everard,  and  when  I last  saw  you 
ygu  sentenced  me  to  twenty  years  penal  servitude  for  a crime  which 
I never  committed.” 

“ Good  God ! ” exclaimed  the  judge,  starting  back  with  moment- 
ary dismay,  but  quickly  recovering  himself,  and  putting  up  his  gold- 
rimmed  eye-glasses  and  closely  scrutinizing  him.  “ Henry  Everard, 
to  be  sure!  Yes,  yes,  I remember  the  case  perfectly.  The  jury 
were  unanimous,  the  evidence  clear ; ” and  the  judge  thought  within 
himself  that  to  be  alone  in  a railway  carriage  with  a man  one  has 
given  twenty  years  for  a manslaughter  one  believes  to  be  murder 
is  an  awkward  thing. 

“The  evidence  was  indeed  clear,”  said  Everard,  “but  it  was 
misleading,  nevertheless,  and  there  was  a terrible  miscarriage  of 
justice.” 

The  quiet  air  with  which  he  spoke,  and  the  look  of  his  care- 
worn face,  impressed  the  judge.  He  could  not  help  giving  some 
credence  to  his  words. 

“ If  you  were  indeed  not  guilty,  Dr.  Everard,”  he  said,  after 
looking  thoughtfully  at  him  for  some  moments,”  “ there  must  have 
been  some  very  hard  swearing.” 

“There  was,”  replied  Everard.  “There  was  perjury  on  the 
part  of  one  witness.” 

“Its  motive?  ” 

“ To  shield  the  real  culprit.” 

“ The  law  gives  you  a remedy  if  you  can  but  prove  the  perjury,” 
said  the  judge. 

“ I do  not  wish  to  prosecute,”  replied  Everard.  “ Besides,  what 
court  can  give  me  back  those  years  of  imprisonment  ? ” 

“ How  many  did  you  serve  ? ” 

“ Eighteen.” 

“ Eighteen  years,”  returned  the  judge,  his  thoughts  running  back 
through  that  period  of  time,  and  taking  count  of  the  things  that 
had  occurred  and  the  changes  that  had  been  wrought  in  it;  “ eigh- 
teen years!  And  you  were  then  a young  man.” 

Everard  smiled  sadly  at  the  contrast  these  words  implied. 

“Then,  you  are  only  recently  enlarged  ? ” Sir  William  added. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


307 


“ Last  Monday.  I have  a ticket-of-leave.” 

The  judge  looked  at  the  broken  and  prematurely  aged  man  with 
an  inward  shudder.  He  thought  of  the  long  line  of  malefactors  he 
had  sentenced,  not  only  to  imprisonment,  but  even  to  death,  and 
wondered  if  he  could  have  pronounced  those  sentences  if  he  had 
been  doomed  to  see  them  carried  out. 

“ I well  remember  the  pain  with  which  I passed  your  sentence,”  , 
he  said.  “ A judge  need  have  a heart  of  iron  and  nerves  of  steel. 
But  the  evidence  was  so  clear.” 

‘‘  You  could  do  no  otherwise.  The  jury  found  me  guilty,  and  I 
could  not  clear  myself.” 

‘‘  Eighteen  years,”  continued  the  judge,  in  a voice  which  had  a 
quiver  in  it.  “I  am  an  old  man.  Dr.  Everard,  an  old  man,  and  it 
can  not  be  many  years  at  the  latest  before  I must  stand  at  the  bar 
of  a justice  that  can  not  miscarry,  but  if  I thought  that  I had  con-  , 
demned  a fellow-creature  unjustly  to  eighteen  years  imprisonment 
with  hard  labor — ” 

‘‘Do  not  think  it,  dear  sir,”  interrupted  Everard,  trying  to 
sooth  the  rising  agitation  in  the  old  man’s  mind;  “the  injustice 
can  not  be  laid  to  your  charge.  ISTo  human  tribunal  can  be  infal- 
lible; but,  as  you  say,  there  is  a Judge  who  can  not  err,  and,  when 
you  and  I are  confronted  at  that  bar,  your  verdict  upon  me  will  be 
reversed  without  blame  to  yourself.” 

“I  trust  so,  I trust  so,”  replied  the  old  man;  “and,  in  the  mean 
time,  I hope  that  you  bear  me  no  ill-will.” 

“ Heaven  forbid,  whose  instrument  you  are ! ” returned  Everard, 
taking  and  warmly  pressing  the  hand  the  judge  offered  him. 

“I  shall  desire  your  further  acquaintance, "sir,”  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman, when  the  train  steamed  into  the  Oldport  station  ; “if  not 
now,  in  a better  world  than  this.” 

And  they  parted,  Everard  leaving  the  carriage,  and  standing 
with  a throbbing  heart  on  the  platform,  while  his  portmanteau  was 
placed  on  a fly,  and  thinking  how  great  was  the  contrast  between 
his  manner  of  leaving  that  station  and  returning  to  it.  He  left  it  in 
the  keen  wintry  fog,  with  handcuffed  wrists,  in  charge  of  constables, 
and  returned  shaking  hands  with  his  judge  in  the  warm  June  sun- 
shine. 

It  was  strange  to  see  the  little  well-known  town  basking  in  the 
summer  heat,  and  filled  with  the  familiar,  homely  stir  of  the  market- 
day,  just  as  it  had  done  all  those  years  ago,  and  he  looked  about  at 


308 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


the  houses  and  shops,  with  their  friendly  air  of  recognition,  to  see 
if  there  were  any  faces  he  knew.  There  stood  the  town  hall,  the 
earliest  scene  of  his  terrible  humiliation,  with  its  familiar  colon- 
nade and  balcony,  its  clock  striking  four  in  the  old  homelike  tones, 
and  the  gilt  figures  on  its  dial  burning  in  the  bright  sunbeams.  The 
stolid  policemen  were  standing  in  the  square  in  front  of  it,  as  they 
had  done  in  the  days  of  his  trial.  He  recognized  one,  a gray- 
headed  man  in  the  stripes  and  dress  of  a sergeant,  as  the  middle-aged 
and  constable  who  had  conducted  him  to  the  magisterial  pres- 
ence, wondered  if  the  man  remembered  him. 

The  carriage  seemed  at  the  same  time  to  crawl  and  to  fly  in  the 
medley  of  feelings  which  urged  him  onward  and  backward.  Would 
they  never  get  out  of  Oldport  ? The  streets  were  cumbered  with 
carriers’  carts  and  wagons  ; droves  of  pigs  and  bewildered  cattle ; 
dense-looking  farmers,  shabbily  dressed,  but  concealing  a fund  of 
shrewd  sense  beneath  their  stolid  countenances,  and  having  well- 
lined  pocket-books  in  their  queer  old  coat-pockets ; and  denser- 
looking  laborers,  whose  heavy  air  of  stupidity  was  half  assumed  and 
half  on  the  surface. 

Smart  new  suburbs  had  put  forth  a pert  growth  in  those  eigh- 
teen years,  and  joined  the  little  town  to  its  quiet  village  neighbor, 
Chalkburne,  the  solid  gray  tower  of  which  looked  down  as  usual 
from  its  centuries  of  gray  calm  on  the  fitful  stir  and  fret  around  it, 
and  tl^e  fevered  hopes  and  fears  that  must  end  at  last  in  the  quiet 
green  mounds  at  its  feet.  And  now  at  last  the  hill  beyond  Ohalk- 
burne  was  climbed ; they  were  on  the  white  chalk  road  that  wound 
along  by  the  downs.  There  were  the- woods  of  Swaynestone  in  the 
distance  and  beyond  them  the  unseen  tower  of  Malbourne  Church, 
and  beneath  that  the  Kectory,  with  its  long-buried  treasure  of  love 
and  hope  and  trust. 

The  little  bays  along  the  coast  shone  in  azure  calm,  and  showed 
the  silver  gleam  of  a sail  here  and  there;  the  woods  spread  their 
fresh  green  domes  toward  the  sea ; the  scent  of  mown  grass  filled 
the  air,  and  the  brown-armed  haymakers  were  busy  in  the  meadows. 
It  was  all  so  familiar,  and  yet  so  strange  to  his  prison-worn  eyes. 

How  they  passed  Swaynestone,  where  Sir  Lionel  reigned  no 
more,  having  been  gathered  to  his  fathers;  and  there,  on  the  left, 
stood  the  sham  Greek  temple,  its  colonnade  gleaming  white  in  the 
sunlight,  and  its  architrave  sharply  outlined  against  the  fatal  green 
coppice  cresting  the  hill  behind  it.  Everard  could  not  see  this  spot. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


309 


the  source  of  so  much  misery,  without  a shudder,  nor  could  the 
tenderer  associations  of  his  walk  there  with  Lilian  elface  the  horror 
of  it  from  his  mind. 

And  now  that  too  was  left  behind,  and  there  were  only  a few 
fields  between  him  and  Malbourne,  and  his  pulses  throbbed.  All 
these  pleasant  home  scenes  were  the  same  as  in  the  old  times,  only 
the  eyes  which  looked  upon  them  were  changed.  Not  a homestead 
or  cottage  was  removed  ; there  were  no  new  buildings.  The  work- 
shops of  the  wheelwright  were  now  in  sight.  He  could  see  a man 
in  a paper  cap  hammering  in  its  dark  interior ; then  the  cottage, 
with  its  wicket  opening  on  to  the  road,  and  its  two  lime-trees  arch- 
ing over  the  path  in  front  of  the  porch  ; then  the  yard,  cumbered 
with  a litter  of  timber  and  broken-down  wagons,  the  scene  of  end- 
less games  with  Cyril  and  the  wheelwright’s  boys;  and  then  the 
corner  was  turned,  and  the  well-known  village  street,  with  the 
square,  gray  tower  at  the  end,  lay  before  him. 

He  stopped  at  the  Sun,  to  leave  his  portmanteau.  He  felt  that 
he  could  not  go  on ; a sudden  horror  overwhelmed  him  at  the  sight 
of  the  home  he  had  left  so  different  a being,  and  all  the  degradation 
and  suffering  of  those  eighteen  years  seemed  to  rise  up  and  stand 
between  him  and  the  woman  for  whom  he  had  dreamed  so  differ- 
ent a destiny.  He  had  pictured  this  moment  so  often  in  the  soli- 
tude of  his  cell,  and  dwelt  with  such  rapture  upon  his  reunion  with 
Lilian  as  the  end  of  all  that  bitter  misery,  that  he  had  not  thought 
of  the  terrible  change  time  and  suffering  had  wrought  in  him  till 
now,  when  it  rushed  in  upon  him  like  a flood. 

Love  never  grows  old;  the  lover  is  always  the  same  within,  and 
Everard’s  mental  pictures  of  Lilian  and  himself  always  portrayed 
them  both  in  the  flower  of  youth,  and  were  filled  with  youth’s  ten- 
der glamour.  Perhaps  he  even  thought  unconsciously  that  their 
meeting  would  efface  the  ravages  of  those  weary  years  from  his  life, 
with  all  that  was  sorrowful  and  distressing. 

And  now  he  stood  within  sight  of  the  roof  that  sheltered  her, 
face  to  face  with  the  sorrowful  fact  that  youth  had  vanished  for  ever, 
and  that  the  best  part  of  the  life  they  should  have  spent  together 
was  gone  beyond  recall.  Only  the  fragments  of  life  remained  now 
— only  the  wrecks  and  floating  spars  of  his  own  ship  of  life  and  of 
Lilian’s. 

He  now  remembered  that  she  too  must  have  changed.  Her 
youth  was  also  gone ; incredible  as  it  appeared,  she  too  had  suffered 


310 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


and  borne  the  weight  of  sorrow-laden  years.  What  if  they  should 
not  be  able  to  recognize  each  other  ? What  if  each  found  a stranger 
in  the  place  of  the  beloved?  Would  not  their  meeting  be  too 
severe  a test  for  human  constancy  ? 

Shaken  by  these  half-morbid  thoughts,  the  broken  man  entered 
the  little  hostelry,  and,  taking  pen  and  ink,  wrote  to  apprise  Lilian 
of  his  arrival,  and  to  appoint  an  Lour  for  calling  at  the  Kectory ; 
for  he  felt  that  he  could  not  go  there  unexpectedly,  and  drop  in 
like  a chance  visitor,  with  the  possibility  of  seeing  her  for  the  first 
time  in  public.  He  wished  also  to  warn  her  that  she  must  not  ex- 
j)ect  to  see  the  Henry  of  old  days  again,  but  only  the  shattered 
wreck  of  a man  who  had  long  left  youth  and  hope  behind. 

Having  dispatched  the  note,  he  sat  down  and  waited  in  the  little 
parlor  assigned  him,  in  a state  of  tense  excitement,  which  made  the 
slightest  sound,  the  ticking  of  a clock,  the  sound  of  wheel  or  hoof 
on  the  road,  unbearable. 

At  last  he  sprang  up  and  passed  through  the  open  French  win- 
dow into  the  old-fashioned  cottage  garden,  where  stood  a rude  sum- 
mer-house, with  a table  and  wooden  settles,  in  which  the  village 
parliament  was  often  held  on  summer  evenings.  A side-window 
of  the  bar  gave  upon  the  garden,  and,  pacing  restlessly  up  and  down 
the  fiagged  path,  Everard  heard  through  the  casement,  which  stood 
open  to  the  summer  air,  the  familiar  twang  of  the  local  dialect 
borne  by  rustic  voices  upon  his  ear. 

He  glanced  in  as  he  passed,  and  recognized  a face  or  two  through 
all  the  mists  and  shadows  of  those  years.  George  Straun,  the  burly 
blacksmith,  stood  as  sturdy  as  ever,  though  his  hair  was  now  well 
powdered  by  the  hand  of  Time.  He  recognized  Stevens,  the  clerk, 
the  years  having  altered  his  outward  man  but  little,  though  they 
had  made  him  more  garrulous  and  opinionated  than  ever. 

“Ay,  Jarge  Straun,”  he  was  saying,  “there’s  a vine  weight  of 
grass  hereabouts,  zure-Z^/.  I don’t  mind  a heavier  crop  as  I knows 
on  this  twenty  year.  Athout  ’twas  the  year  Ben  Lee  come  by’s 
death.” 

“ I minds  that  there  crop,”  returned  William  Grove,  whom  Ever- 
ard had  not  recognized — “ well  I minds  ’un.  That  there  spring 
there  was  a power  o’  hrain  come  down.” 

“ And  a vine  zummer  as  ever  I zee,”  added  Stevens,  “ and  the 
graves  as  easy  to  dig  as  easy;,  the  sile  entirely  crumbed  up  wi’  the 
drought,  a did.  And  the  grass  was  well  zaved.  Granfer,  ’ee  zaid 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


311 


as  how  ’ee  didn’t  mind  more’n  dree  or  vour  zummers  like  he  all’s 
life,  Granfer  didn’t.  That  was  the  zummer  ater  Dr.  Everard  done 
for  poor  Ben  Lee — ay,  that  ’twas.” 

‘‘Ah!”  growled  the  blacksmith,  withdrawing  his  broad  face 
from  the  eclipse  of  his  pewter  pot  and  passing  his  hand  slowly  over 
his  mouth,  “ he  never  done  that,  Dr.  Everard  didn’t.” 

“Zo  youzays,  large  Straun.  And  zay  it  you  med  till  you  was 
black  i’  the  vaace,  but  you  wouldn’t  vetch  ’un  out  o’  jail,”  retorted 
Stevens,  resuming  a battle  that  had  raged  incessantly  for  the  last 
eighteen  years  between  the  village  worthies,  whom  the  question 
had  split  into  two  unequal  factions. 

‘‘  I zeen  ’un  myself,”  continued  Straun,  leader  of  the  not-guilty 
faction,  “ a-gwine  down  street  in  the  vull  daylight.  And  he  hadn’t 
no  gray  clo’es  on.  ’S  coat  was  so  black  as  my  hat.  Well  I minds 
’un!  Passed  the  time  o’  day,  he  did,  and  looked  as  pleased  as 
Punch.  He  never  done  vur  Ben  Lee,  bless  ye!  ” 

‘‘You  be  terble  clever,  large  Straun;  but  you  never  kep’ ’un 
out  o’ jail  wi’  all  yer  cleverness,”  said  Stevens  ‘‘You  never  zeen 
no  black  coat  there  arternoon,  ’thout  ’twas  yer  own.  Why,  Lard 
love  ye,  I zeen  ’un  myself,  as  I zaid  avore  the  justices.  He  come 
out  o’  Rectory  gairden,  and  went  up  vield  wi’  ’s  gray  clo’es  on.  He 
couldn’t  ’a  been  in  two  places  at  a time,  nor  he  couldn’t  ’a  wore 
two  coats  at  a time,  ye  noghead,  I zeen  ’un ’s  plain  as  plums,  I 
tell  ’ee.  I passes  ’un  the  time  o’  day,  and  he  never  zeemed  to  hear 
and  never  zaid  nothun.  Yur  why  ? He  was  a-gwine  out  a breakin’ 
the  Ten  Commandments,  a murderin’  o’  poor  Ben  Lee.” 

“ He  never  done  it,”  reiterated  the  blacksmith,  stolidly. 

“Not  he  didn’t,”  added  William  Grove.  “He  zeen  my  little 
maid  and  give  her  a penny,  and  she’ve  a got  ’un  now.” 

“ And  he  zeen  Granfer  at  vive  o’clack,  when  them  maids  swore 
they  zeen  him  come  home  in ’s  gray  clo’es,”  added  Hale,  the  wheel- 
wright. “ And  he  ast  Granfer  if  he’d  a yeard  the  bell-team  go  by, 
he  did.  And  Granfer  he  up  and . zays,  ‘ I ain’t  a yeard  ’un  go  by 
zince  dinner-time,  not  as  I knows  on,  I ain’t,’  he  zays,  zays  Granfer. 
And  Dr.  Everard,  he  zays  a power  o’  things  to  Granfer — many  a 
time  Granfer  have  a zaid  it  in  this  yer  Sun  Inn — a power  o’  things 
Dr.  Everard  zaid,  and  a power  o’  things  Granfer  zaid  to  he.  And 
Dr.  Everard,  he  outs  wi’  a shil’n’  and  gives  it  to  Granfer.  And  he 
keeps  that  there  shil’n’  to ’s  dying  day,  Granfer  does.  And  there 
ain’t  a man  in  this  yer  bar  but  have  zeen  that  ar  shil’n’  and  a-han- 


312 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


died  ’un,”  he  coDcluded,  triumphantly  looking  round  with  the  sense 
of  having  finally  clinched  his  argument. 

“Ay,  William  Hale,”  returned  Stevens,  sarcastically,  “you’ve 
got  a power  o’  words  inzide  o’  ye,  when  zo  be  as  you  can  zim  to 
bring  ’em  out.  But  Zir  Ingram,  he  zeen  ’un  a-runnin’  across  that 
ar  vield  just  avore  vive.  Ay,  it’s  a likely  thing  as  Zir  Ingram 
shouldn’t  know  if  he  zeen  a man  or  a mouse.  The  likes  o’  he  don’t 
goo  a swearin’  they  zeen  what  they  never  zeen.  Granfer — I won’t 
zay  nothin’  agen  he — he’d  a powerful  mind,  had  Granfer,  hut  Lard 
love  ye,  what’s  a powerful  mind  agen  a eddication  like  Sir  In- 
gram’s? Granfer,  he’d  a giv’  his  mind  to  most  things,  but  he 
hadn’t  had  no  hook-larning,  zo  to  say,  hadn’t  Granfer.  He  could 
count,  and  he  could  read  print  wi’  leavin’  out  the  big  words,  zo 
well  as  any  man  I knows  on,  but ’s  eddication  was  effective ; it 
didn’t  come  up  to  Sir  Ingram’s  college  scholarding,  it  didn’t.  Naw, 
naw.” 

A pause  ensued,  the  little  company  feeling  crushed  by  the 
weight  of  Stevens’s  long  words,  a species  of  powerful  artillery  that 
he  only  brought  to  bear  on  his  adversary  when  hard  pressed.  Then 
Tom  Hale,  who  some  time  ere  this  had  beaten  his  sword  into  a 
wheelwright’s  tools,  took  up  his  parable  on  this  wise : 

“He  never  done  it.  Dr.  Everard  didn’t.” 

“If  he  never  done  it,  who  did?”  inquired  the  landlord,  per- 
tinently. 

“Darn  it  all!  ” said  William  Grove,  driving  his  hand  through 
his  bushy  hair  in  dire  perplexity,  and  repeating  the  phrase  he  had 
used  any  time  this  eighteen  years,  “ zomebody  done  it.  Why,  I 
vound  the  bodymeself!  Well  I minds  it.  ’Twas  a vrosty  night, 
and  I vound  ’un  all  stiff  and  stark.  Nobody  can  zay  nothin’  agen 
that,  when  I zeen  ’un  wi’  my  own  eyes.  And  I run  into  Master 
Hale’s,  as  was  keepin’  up  New  Year’s  Eve  wi’  a party,  and  I zays, 
and  you  yeard  me  plain  enough,  ‘Lord  ’a  massy  on  us!  ’ I zays, 
zays  I,  ‘ they  ben  and  done  vur  poor  Ben  Lee  ! ’ I zays  ; and  Gran- 
fer, he  yeai*d  me.” 

“ Ay,  and  Granfer  he  ups  and  zays,  zays  he,  ‘You  med  all  mark 
my  w.ords,’  he  zays,  ‘zomebody’ll  ha’e  to  swing  fur  this  yer.’  Them 
was  Granfer’s  words,”  said  the  wheelwright,  looking  round  with 
great  solemnity. 

“Zomebody  done  it,”  continued  Stevens,  with  authority,  “and 
ii  ’tvvasn’t  Dr.  Everard,  who  was  it  as  done  it.  Athout  ’twas  Mr*, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


313 


Maitland  liisself,”  he  added,  with  intense  sarcasm,  “ or  maybe  Mr. 
Cyril.  Zomebody  done  it,  that’s  as  plain  as  plums.” 

“He  never  done  it,”  repeated  the  sturdy  blacksmith,  finishing 
his  ale  and  stamping  off  homeward  with  a sullen  “ Good  night  ” 
to  all. 

“ There  was  Alma  Lee,”  continued  the  landlord,  who  never  liked 
a good  argument  conducing  to  the  dryness  of  the  inner  man  to  drop, 
“ she  knowed  who  done  it.  And  she  sweared  dead  agen  the  doctor, 
she  did.” 

“ And  she  med  swear,”  commented  William  Grove ; “ she  was  a 
bad  ’un.  Them  there  stuck-up  gals  isn’t  never  up  to  no  good.  Mr. 
Maitland,  and  they  up  Rectory,  they  had  the  sp’ilin’  o’  she.” 

“Ay!”  growled  the  wheelwright;  “poor  Charlie  Judkins  I 
What  he  took  out  to  ’Merriky  wi’  ’un  warn’t  no  account,  no- 
how.” 

“ A haddish  cargo  ’twas,”  added  Tom  Hale;  and  the  whole  com- 
pany joined  in  condemning  the  unfortunate  girl,  with  the  wholesale 
condemnation  dealt  out  by  men  to  the  woman  who  makes  the  small- 
est slip  on  the  slippery  path  of  right. 

Just  then  the  dear  old  familiar  voice  of  the  church  clock  told  the 
hour,  sending  a quiver  through  Everard’s  frame  with  every  stroke 
of  its  mellow  bell ; and,  passing  through  the  garden  gate  into  the 
village  street,  he  bent  his  steps  toward  the  Rectory. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Every  feature  of  the  well-remembered  scene  was  the  same,  only 
the  faces  of  the  people  were  altered.  Men  were  working  in  their 
little  gardens,  women  standing  at  wicket  gates  with  babies  in  their 
arms,  children  playing  in  the  dusty  road.  The  forge  was  all  aglow, 
its  furnace  showing  lurid  red  in  contrast  with  the  evening  sunbeams. 
Straun’s  eldest  son,  a stout  fellow  over  thirty,  was  dealing  his  ring- 
ing blows  upon  the  anvil,  in  the  cheery  familiar  rhythm  of  his 
craft. 

The  little  band  of  children  who  always  cluster  about  a forge  were 
sporting  round  it,  and  turned  to  stare  at  the  stranger.  A tiny  creat- 
ure tottered  away  from  its  child  nurse,  and^stood  open-armed  in  Ever- 


314 


THE  EILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


ard’s  path,  greeting  him  with  a joyous  gurgle.  He  patted  the  flaxen 
head,  and  passed  on  with  a kind  word.  He  was  glad  to  see  children 
run  to  him  with  confidence. 

Every  step  on  the  familiar  path  made  his  heart  beat  more  wildly. 
Something  was  rising  chokingly  in  his  throat,  so  that  he  was  afraid 
to  trust  himself  farther  on,  and  paused,  leaning  against  the  church- 
yard wall,  behind  which  he  could  see  the  inscription  on  Granfer’s 
tombstone,  and  imagined  that  he  saw  female  figures  emerging  from 
the  Eectory  gate  or  strolling  under  the  trees,  and  asked  himself, 
‘'Is  it  she?” 

It  was  no  fancy.  A tangible,  solid  woman’s  form  was  indeed 
pacing,  heavily  pacing,  the  gravel  drive ; the  form  was  stout,  the 
hair  iron-gray,  the  gait  clumsy.  A sick  fear  took  him,  and  he  re- 
membered that  Lilian  was  five  and  twenty  eighteen  long  years  ago. 
The  lady  opened  the  gate  and  issued  forth,  her  features  showing 
distinctly  in  the  rich  sunlight.  They  were  heavy,  commonplace, 
and  quietly  contented,  and  he  did  not  recognize  the  once  pretty 
Miss  Garrett  of  Horthover,  now  the  mother  of  half  a dozen  stout 
lads. 

He  recovered  from  this  miserable,  nervous  weakness,  and  walked 
stoutly  on,  growing  paler  as  he  approached  the  beloved  house.  It 
was  a delicious  evening.  The  air  was  still  and  pure,  and  balmy 
with  the  scent  of  flowers  and  hay;  the  long  sunbeams  touched  the 
woods  and  downs  with  tender  glory;  the  swallows  were  darting 
round  the  tower,  whose  gray  face  was  gilded  by  the  western  glow, 
and  glancing  across  the  pure,  pale  sky,  their  bodies  gleaming  with 
gold,  like  the  doves  of  Scripture,  “ whose  feathers  are  like  gold”; 
down  in  the  thickets  the  thrushes  and  blackbirds  were  pouring  out 
their  evening  lay ; and  a pair  of  larks  were  maddening  each  other 
with  the  rival  raptures  of  their  song  overhead. 

He  passed  the  bit  of  green  on  which  Lennie  and  Dickie  Stevens 
were  fighting  on  the  winter  afternoon  when  he  left  it,  handcuffed 
and  amazed.  He  opened  the  gate  and  entered.  There  was  the 
laburnum  planted  on  the  birthday,  a great  tree  now;  down  there 
they  used  to  play  at  Robinson  Crusoe.  The  great  pear-tree  was 
still  standing  from  which  Cyril  fell  that  far-off  autumn  day;  he 
could  even  now  see  the  boy  lying  white  and  still  on  the  grass,  hear 
Lilian’s  cry  of  terror,  and  recall  the  sick  pang  with  which  he  thought 
he  might  be  killed. 

He  reached  the  door,  and  a mist  came  before  his  eyes,  whirling 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


315 


30  that  he  oould  not  see  the  hell-handle  for  a few  seconds,  and  had 
to  grope  for  it.  The  bell  echoed  through  a silent  house  ; he  heard 
footsteps  coming  along  the  well-known  corridor  and  through  the 
hall ; the  door  opened,  and  disclosed  the  blooming  face  of  a parlor- 
maid, who  regarded  him  without  interest. 

“ Is  Miss  Maitland  at  home?  ” he  asked,  in  a voice  from  which 
every  vestige  of  tone  had  vanished. 

“ Yes,  sir.  What  name,  if  you  please?  ” 

Dr.  Everard,”  he  faltered  huskily,  and  a terror  came  over  him, 
and  made  him  think  that  he  should  have  to  turn  back,  unable  to  face 
the  moment. 

The  maid,  however,  whisked  airily  on  to  the  drawing-room 
door,  which  she  opened,  pronouncing  his  name  with  metallic  clear- 
ness. 

In  the  well-known  room  all  seemed  dark  after  the  bright  external 
sunshine.  The  Venetians  were  closed  against  the  western  glow, 
and  the  deep  gloom  was  emphasized  here  and  there  by  a long  rod 
of  golden  light  falling  through  the  chinks.  He  stood  irresolute  just 
within  the  door.  A figure  rose  from  the  far  end,  and  he  heard,  in 
Lilian’s  pure  and  silvery  tones,  one  cry  of  “ Henry ! ” as  she  moved 
toward  him. 

For  a space  he  seemed  both  blind  and  deaf,  and  then  all  the  pain- 
ful agitation  fell  away  from  him,  the  sick  yearning  of  the  long  years 
was  stilled,  the  nervous  weakness  gone.  He  was  healed  and  calmed, 
himself  once  more;  for  it  was  indeed  Lilian  who  stood  before  him 
— the  same,  same  Lilian,  with  the  sweetest  soul  that  ever  looked 
from  clear  eyes  gazing  up  into  his  own,  the  Lilian  of  his  young  love, 
the  Lilian  of  his  long,  pining  prison-dreams. 

Those  first  few  moments  were  too  tense  for  memory;  neither  of 
the  re-united  lovers  was  ever  able  to  recall  anything  but  a dream- 
like sense  of  happiness  from  them ; each  spoke,  but  neither  remem- 
bered what  was  said.  The  first  moment  of  distinct  daylight  con- 
sciousness was  when  they  found  themselves  sitting  hand-in-hand  on 
the  couch  which  had  been  Mrs.  Maitland’s  through  ^lo  many  years 
of  weakness,  silent  and  happy  and  perfectly  calm. 

Everard  was  wholly  pervaded  by  a sense  of  Lilian’s  pure  and 
wholesome  presence ; he  was  soothed  and  blessed  by  it,  as  one  is 
by  the  beauty  of  some  fresh  and  fair  summer  evening,  when  the 
whole  earth  is  bathed  in  the  purity  of  soft  and  cloudless  light,  and 
the  stainless  air  is  stilled  as  if  to  listen  to  the  voices  of  the  sea  and 


316 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


the  forest  and  the  bridal  songs  of  many  birds.  Such  had  aUtays 
been  the  effect  of  her  presence.  It  had  ever  brought  him  renewal 
and  fresh  strength,  together  with  the  calm  of  perfect  happiness;  but 
now,  after  the  long  abstinence,  the  eighteen  years’  fast,  the  effect 
was  tenfold. 

They  sat  a long  time  thus,  forgetful  of  everything  but  the  divine 
rapture  of  that  long-desired  moment,  forgetful  of  all  the  wrong  and 
misery,  the  sin  and  degradation  and  loss  of  the  weary  years  that 
bad  parted  them,  forgetful  of  every  creature  but  each  other;  and 
then  Lilian  began  to  speak  of  those  he  had  loved,  and  at  last  rose 
from  the  pleasant  shadows  and  went  to  the  bay  window. 

‘‘It  is  dark,”  she  said,  in  the  beloved  remembered  voice;.  “ we 
will  have  light.” 

And  in  a moment  she  had  drawn  up  the  rattling  Venetian  blind, 
and  the  full  blaze  of  evening  sunshine  poured  in  upon  her.  It 
crowned  her  rich  hair  with  new  glory,  it  fell  like  a benediction 
upon  her  calm  brow  and  linely  curved  lips,  it  clothed  her  form  with 
a robe  of  radiance,  as  she  stood  erect  and  well  poised  in  the  perfec- 
tion of  grace  that  is  only  possible  to  a form  of  beautiful  proportions, 
her  head  slightly  thrown  back,  her  glance  raised  to  the  glowing  sky, 
and  one  arm,  from  which  the  lace  fell  backward,  extended  in  the 
act  of  drawing  the  cord.  She  stood  in  the  magic  glow  transfigured, 
exalted  by  the  deep  emotion  of  the  moment,  and  wearing,  in  Ever- 
ard’s  eyes,  a brighter  glory  than  that  of  youth. 

There  had  ever  been  in  Lilian  an  enduring  charm  over  which 
years  could  have  no  power — a something  so  superior  to  beauty  that 
it  made  people  forget  to  ask  if  that  divine  gift  were  hers,  and  which 
also  made  it  impossible  to  think  of  age  or  youth  in  connection  with 
her.  Though  it  was  well  known  that  the  dean  was  her  twin  brother, 
no  one  ever  dreamed  of  attributing  his  three  and  forty  years  to  her ; 
nor  did  any  one  commit  the  mistake  of  treating  her  as  a girl.  She 
did  not  grow  old  or  fade ; she  simply  developed  in  so  harmonious  a 
manner  that  each  year  of  her  life  seemed  the  year  of  culminating 
prime. 

A minute  and  microscopic  examination  of  her  features  might 
have  enabled  a physiologist  to  assign  her  the  true  tale  of  her  years ; 
there  might  have  been  gray  hairs  among  the  brown,  soft  waves,  but 
no  one  sought  them,  and  no  one  saw  them.  Health  and  exercise 
had  preserved  the  fair  proportions  of  her  form  ; no  evil  thought  had 
stamped  its  impress  on  the  pure  outline  of  her  features ; no  fretting, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


317 


no  repressed  and  baffled  faculties,  bad  left  their  wearing  marks  on 
her  beautiful  face. 

Good  women  age  slowly,  as  great  painters  discovered  when 
painting  bereaved  Madonnas.  Women  whose  lives  are  full  and 
whose  faculties  are  fully  employed  also  age  slowly.  Lilian’s  life  had 
by  no  means  been  sterile.  She  had  had  her  mother,  whose  life  her 
cares  had  prolonged,  to  nurse;  her  young  brother  and  sister  to 
bring  up;  her  father  and  her  home  to  care  for;  the  whole  village, 
and  all  the  invalids  and  ne’er-do-wells  for  miles  round,  to  cherish 
and  advise  and  heal. 

With  an  intellect  less  showy,  but  stronger  and  steadier  than  the 
dean’s,  she  had  given  him  all  that  was  best  and  most  enduring  in 
his  writings;  no  work  of  his  had  ever  been  passed  through  the 
press  without  the  benefit  of  her  revision ; there  were  few  things  he 
had  ever  done  without  her  advice,  in  spite  of  the  estrangement  that 
had  arisen  between  them  since  the  date  of  their  common  sorrow. 
She  had  been  with  him  in  his  bereavements,  and  had  tended  the 
death-beds  of  his  children  and  his  wife ; and  she  had  been  a mother 
to  Marion  and  the  blind  Everard,  who  both  loved  her  next  to  their 
father. 

And,  deep  as  was  the  sorrow  which  had  made  her  youth  a lone- 
liness, and  blighted  Everard’s  hopes  and  her  own  in  this  long  and 
terrible  punishment,  it  w'as  the  kind  of  sorrow  that  purifies  and 
elevates : it  was  not  like  the  physical  suffering,  the  degradation,  and 
the  wearing  sense  of  wrong  which  Everard  endured ; it  could  not 
crush  her  energies,  blunt  her  faculties,  or  stifle  her  intellect.  She 
had  not  been  obliged  to  repress  the  love  so  cruelly  blighted ; she 
had  lived  for  Everard  all  those  years,  and  had  been  able  to  keep 
alive  hope,  and  even  some  kind  of  joy,  in  his  breast.  The  sorrow 
had  come  so  suddenly,  and  fallen  so  irrevocably,  that  there  had  been 
no  wearing  agony  of  suspense,  no  struggle  of  hopes  and  fears  , the 
trouble  had  to  be  met  and  coped  with  once  for  all,  and  through  the 
dim  vista  of  those  long  years  there  had  always  gleamed  the  hope 
that  was  fulfilled  in  the  present  moment. 

Everard  gazed  in  rapt  admiration  on  the  glorified  figure  in  the 
sunshine,  and  upon  the  well-remembered  adored  hand  that  was  so 
like  a spirit  in  its  pure  and  slender  beauty,  and  did  not  dream  of 
helping  her,  it  was  so  long  since  he  had  known  the  courtesies  of  life. 
She  had  only  raised  the  center  blind  of  the  bay;  she  now  turned  to 
the  side  blinds,  and  drew  them  up  with  the  same  light  and  strong 


318 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


sweep  of  her  well-molded  arm,  and  Everard  now  observed  that  she 

in  an  evening  dress  of  some  light-hued  and  soft  fabric,  and  wore 
a hunch  of  fresh  roses  at  her  neck  ; she  was  in  festal  array  to  receive 
him.  The  golden  glory  changed  even  as  she  stood,  it  blushed  a sud- 
den crimson,  and  died  away  into  purest  rose ; the  sun  set,  and  only 
the  faint  and  changing  after-glow  remained. 

Lilian  now  turned  and  saw  Everard  clearly  in  the  fading  rose- 
light,  which  vanished  as  she  looked,  and  left  only  the  hard,  uncom- 
promising light  of  a June  evening  behind.  She  saw  the  wistful 
eyes  deep-sunken  in  the  wasted  face,  the  gray  hair,  the  bowed  form, 
and  the  worn  and  haggard  features,  with  their  sublime  expression 
of  heroic  suffering,  and  a sharp,  plaintive  cry  broke  from  her. 

“Henry!  my  poor,  poor  Henry!  What  have  they  done  to 
you?  ” she  cried,  hastening  to  his  side. 

He  rose  to  meet  her,  and  clasped  the  beautiful  slim  hands  in 
his  own  gloved  ones,  and  looked  down  into  her  tear-clouded  eyes. 
“I  warned  you  what  a wreck  you  would  see,”  he  replied.  “Ah, 
Lilian ! this  is  not  the  man  you  loved.” 

“ Dearest,  you  must  be  happy  now ; you  must  forget  all  the 
ti^ouble  and  pain,”  continued  Lilian,  who  was  crying  for  very  pity 
over  him.  “ Ah,  Henry ! if  love  could  heal  you,  you  would  soon 
be  healed.” 

Henry  could  only  fold  her  silently  to  his  heart,  feeling  that  he 
was  indeed  healed  already. 

Soon  Mr.  Maitland  appeared,  his  silver  hair  now  snow-white, 
and  his  voice  fainter  than  of  old.  He  was  much  shocked  at  the 
change  in  Henry  at  first  sight  of  him  ; but  he  recovered  quickly,  and 
welcomed  him  cordially  in  the  exquisite  Maitland  manner.  His  first 
full  conviction  of  Everard’s  guilt  had  gradually  disappeared,  whether 
under  the  infiuence  of  Lilian’s  long  unswerving  faith,  or  of  the  tone 
of  Henry’s  letters,  which  had  of  late  often  been  quoted  to  him,  or 
through  the  softening  which  old  age  brings,  and  which  disposes  to 
increasing  lenience  of  judgment,  it  is  difficult  to  say.  He  now  asked 
his  forgiveness  for  his  former  want  of  faith  in  him. 

“ Dear  fellow,”  he  said,  “ I yield  Lilian  willingly  to  you,  hard  as 
it  is  to  lose  her.  But  you  have  the  better  claim,  and  you  have 
waited  long;  my  poor  children,  you  have  waited  too  long,”  he 
added,  his  eyes  growing  dim  as  they  fell  on  Everard’s  gray 
hairs. 

He  would  not  hear  of  Everard’s  leaving  the  house  that  night. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


319 


but  sent  at  once  for  his  portmanteau,  and  told  him  that  his  room 
had  been  waiting  for  him  for  days. 

“I  should  rather  say  your  rooms,”  he  explained,  “ since  Lilian 
could  not  decide  whether  you  would  prefer  your  own  old  room,  or 
one  less  familiar,  and  thus  had  two  arranged.  But  why  do  you 
keep  your  gloves  on?  You  were  wont  to  despise  gloves  in  the  old 
days.” 

“Can  you  not  guess?”  asked  Everard.  “Did  you  ever  see  a 
mason’s  hands?  ” 

“Shall  it  be  the  old  room?”  asked  Lilian,  while  her  father 
turned  away,  more  moved  at  the  thought  of  the  roughened  hands 
than  he  had  thought  it  possible  to  be,  and  remembering  Everard’s 
intellectual  gifts,  and  the  rich  promise  of  his  early  manhood. 

Everard’s  had  been  the  ideal  surgeon’s  hand — strong,  supple, 
smooth,  and  with  sensitive  finger-tips,  and  this  skillful  and  scientific 
instrument  had  been  blunted  and 'maimed  by  rough  mechanic  labor 
through  all  the  best  years  of  his  life,  while  many  a sufferer  had 
lacked  its  healing  touch,  and  writhed  under  the  clumsier  strength  of 
less  delicate  fingers. 

“ Alas,  Henry ! ” he  exclaimed,  after  a pause ; “ I trust  I may 
never  know  the  man  who  let  you  suffer  in  his  stead.  I could  not 
forgive  him.” 

A faint  shudder  passed  over  Lilian  at  these  words,  and  she  di- 
rected Henry’s  attention  to  a cushioned  chair  by  the  hearth,  on 
which  lay  a round,  black  something,  which  proved  on  inspection  to 
be  Mark  Antony,  the  cat,  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just,  and  snoring 
blissfully. 

“Dear  old  Mark!  ” said  Henry,  stroking  the  velvet  fur;  “ what, 
alive  still  ? ” 

“ He  has  retired  from  active  service,”  observed  Mr.  Mait- 
land, “and  devotes  himself  to  a life  of  contemplation — lazy  old 
Mark ! ” 

“He  is  the  apple  of  our  eyes,”  laughed  Lilian,  lifting  him  up, 
and  letting  him  stretch  his  soft  limbs  and  yawn  blissfully.  “ I love 
the  creature  as  if  he  were  human ; he  has  been  my  companion  and 
comfort  so  long.” 

Mr.  Maitland  observed  that,  like  many  other  gentlemen,  Mark 
had  taken  to  religion  in  his  later  years,  and  was  now  a regular 
church-goer.  Every  Sunday  morning  he  was  in  the  habit  of  trot- 
ting after  his  master  to  the  vestry,  where  he  had  a cushion  in  a 
21 


S20 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


sunny  window-sill,  and  was  respectfully  treated  by  the  clerk  and 
the  choristers. 

These  trivial  anecdotes,  which  served  to  fill  an  awkward  silence, 
presently  included  Cyril. 

“We  are  very  proud  of  ‘my  son  the  dean,’  Henry,  you  must 
know;  our  Chrysostom,  our  golden-mouth.  You  must  hear  him 
preach  some  day,”  Mr.  Maitland  said  finally. 

“ Poor  Cyril ! ” sighed  Everard.  “ I stopped  at  Belminster 
on  my  way  down,  and  heard  him  preach.  A very  fine  preacher, 
with  a singular  gift.  I do  not  wonder  that  you  are  proud  of 
him.” 

“You  saw  Cyril?  ” asked  Lilian,  with  a startled  air. 

“He  does  not  often  preach,”  continued  Mr.  Maitland.  “ The 
fact  is,  his  nerves  can  not  stand  the  excitement;  he  throws  himself 
too  unrestrainedly  into  it,  and  it  makes  him  ill.” 

“He  was  ill  that  night.  Yes,  I saw  that  he  was  completely 
carried  away.  He  is  inspired;  he  is  obliged  to  speak  as  he  is 
moved.  He  said  what  he  never  dreamed  of  saying  before  he  be- 
gan.”  I 

“ Our  dear  Chrysostom  ! ” murmured  the  proud  father.  “ Yes, 
Henry,  the  fire  descends  upon  him ; he  has  the  true  gift.  Have  you 
heard  that  he  is  to  be  Bishop  of  Warham?  ” 

“ Poor  Cyril ! ” said  Henry  and  Lilian  simultaneously ; and 
neither  asked  the  other  why  he  was  to  be  pitied. 

But  Lilian  seemed  anxious  to  avoid  the  topic,  and,  saying  that 
the  supper-hour  was  already  past,  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room, 
with  the  great  cat. 

“ Puss  gives  me  such  a sense  of  home  as  I can  not  express,”  said 
Henry,  fondly  stroking  his  unresponsive  form. 

“We  think  his  purr  acquires  mellowness  with  years,”  laughed 
Lilian.  “ Henry,  do  you  still  like  chicken  and  oysters  and  cherry- 
tart?  Because  I have  dreamed  for  years  of  giving  them  to  you  on 
such  an  occasion  as  this.” 

“And  this  pale  port?”  added  Mr.  Maitland,  pointing  to  a cob- 
webbed  bottle  lying  on’ a rack.  “You  and  Cyril  laid  it  down  for 
me.  It  was  drunk  at  his  ordination,  his  wedding,  his  eldest  son’s 
christening,  and  his  installation  as  dean.  This  was  kept  for  your 
return,  and  there  is  still  a bottle  for  the  bishop’s  enthronement.” 

“ They  did  not  give  us  very  old  port  or  young  chicken  at  Dart—” 
Henry  began,  and  stopped  seeing  Lilian  glance  at  the  waiting-maid. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


321 


He  flushed,  hut  was  too  serenely  happy  for  any  morhid  regrets,  ana 
listened  happily  to  his  host’s  apology  for  the  absence  of  dinner, 
which  was  now  only  a midday  repast,  owing  to  the  declining  health 
of  his  old  age. 

Lilian’s  remembrance  of  his  old  liking  touched  him  as  only  such 
little  things  can  touch,  and  the  meal  with  the  old  port  had  almost  a 
sacramental  character  for  him.  The  sparkle  of  the  silver  and  glass, 
the  ordinary  graces  of  a gentleman’s  table,  to  which  he  had  so  long 
been  a stranger,  were  beyond  measure  delightful  to  him,  and  he 
saw  by  many  little  indications  that  the  fresh  flowers  and  the  fruit 
and  the  very  service  had  received  the  graceful  touch  of  Lilian’s  own 
hands  to  welcome  him. 

His  last  free  meal  had  been  at  that  board  and  in  that  beloved 
presence.  Since  then,  save  for  the  few  solitary  repasts  he  had 
taken  in  hotels,  he  had  broken  the  bread  of  captivity  moistened 
with  tears,  and  had  learned  almost  to  forget  the  simple  courtesies 
of  life.  It  was  a pleasure  to  drink  from  bright  engraved  glass,  to 
handle  silver  and  fresh  linen,  to  hear  the  kindly  voice  of  his  host,  to 
observe  the  quiet,  gliding  motions  of  the  well-trained  maid,  to  see 
the  soft  glow  of  the  lamp ; much  more  to  feel  the  beloved  presence, 
to  meet  the  glance  of  Lilian’s  clear  eyes  and  hear  the  pure  tones  of 
her  voice.  It  was  like  heaven,  he  said,  when  they  parted  for  the 
night. 


CHAPTER  YII. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Everard,  like  one  in  a blissful 
dream,  went  to  the  church  so  full  of  youthful  associations,  and  saw 
many  of  the  faces  familiar  to  his  youth,  yet  unfamiliar  now  because 
of  the  metamorphoses  of  time,  and  missed  many,  swept  away,  for 
the  most  part,  into  the  silence  which  awaits  us  all,  and  thought  of 
the  winter  Sunday  eighteen  years  gone,  when  Cyril  preached  his 
strange  passionate  sermon  on  innocence.  He  thought,  too,  of  the 
sermon  in  the  cathedral,  and  the  terrible  anguish  on  the  guilty 
man’s  face,  the  canker  that  had  been  eating  into  his  heart  through 
all  those  years.  He  was  glad  to  think  that  Marion  was  at  rest. 

Upon  the  wall,  opposite  the  Rectory  pew,  he  saw  a marble  tab» 
let,  on  which  he  read  the  following  sorrowful  inscription : 


322 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND. 


Sacred  to  the  Memory  of 
MARION, 

BELOVED  WIFE  OF 

THE  VERY  REVEREND  CYRIL  MAITLAND,  D.  D., 

DEAN  OF  BELMINSTER, 

WHO  DIED  AUGUST  20,  1875, 

AGED  32  YEARS. 

AND  OF 

THE  BELOVED  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABOVE: 

Ernest,  aged  6 years  ; 

Arthur  and  Lilian,  aged  3 years; 

Cyril  Everard,  aged  9,  Bertha,  aged  3, 
and  William  Keppel,  aged  4,  who  all  three  died  in  one  week  op 

THE  SAME  MALADY  ; 

AND  Edward  Augustus,  aged  1 year. 

‘‘ 0 spare  me  a little,  that  I may  recover  my  strength  ; before  I go  hence, 
and  be  no  more  seen.” 

A vision  of  the  little  band  of  children  floated  with  pathetic  grace 
before  Everard’s  eyes,  and  he  thought  what  pangs  must  have  rent 
their  parents’  hearts  when  the  earth  closed  over  each  bright  little 
face;  nor  did  he  greatly  wonder  that  Marion’s  fragile  existence  had 
been  crushed  by  such  sorrow.  The  boy  who  had  given  him  the  l)on- 
dons  and  played  at  convicts  headed  the  mournful  list,  a pretty,  sturdy 
little  fellow,  whose  name  and  features  he  remembered  well.  His 
heart  bled  for  Cyril,  and  yet  he  thought,  and  w^ondered,  did  Lilian 
think  too,  as  she  sat  by  his  side,  of  another  little  group  of  child- 
faces — of  other  Cyrils  and  Lilians  and  Ernests,  of  the  very  same 
blood  as  those  dead  babes,  who  might  have  clustered  around  their 
hearth  but  for  that  stricken  father’s  sin  ? He  thought  also  of  yet 
another  child,  outcast  and  disowned,  who  might  be  wandering  now 
in  lonely  manhood  somewhere  on  the  earth’s  wide  bosom. 

Lilian  had  told  him  of  the  sad  manner  in  which  Cyril’s  twins 
were  lost.  They  were  at  play  on  the  steps  of  a bathing-machine, 
drawn  up  by  a rope  on  a sloping  shore,  when  the  line  parted,  and 
the  machine  ran  down  into  the  sea,  Cyril  running  after  it  with  all 
his  speed,  and  suffering  the  cruel  anguish  of  seeing  the  children 
spring  toward  him  only  to  fall  into  the  sea,  where  the  rollers  at 
once  swept  them  away  from  his  sight  for  ever.  . His  wild  effort  to 
save  them  had  thus  caused  their  death. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


323 


Marion  felt  it  less  than  Cyril,  who  was  an  unusually  affectionate 
father,  Lilian  said.  . Indeed,  Marion  had  been  strangely  apathetic 
of  late  years.  Her  marriage  was  not  a.  happy  one.  She  could  not 
understand  her  husband,  she  confessed  to  Lilian  in  her  last  hours ; 
he  was  kind,  and  even  tender,  towards  her,  but  she  was  afraid  of 
him,  and  grew  more  afraid  as  years  went  on.  There  was  something 
— she  knew  not  what — between  them,  and  Cyril’s  strange  and  ter- 
rible melancholy  was  enough  to  depress  a stronger  nature  than 
hers. 

“ I have  sometimes  thought,”  commented  Lilian,  “ that  Marion’s 
continual  bereavements  and  fragile  health  may  have  unhinged  her 
mind  ; there  was  certainly  somethihg  morbid  in  the  way  in  which 
she  thought  of  Cyril.”  There  was  a wistful  appeal  in  Lilian’s  voice 
as  she  said  this,  and  an  expression  in  the  eyes  which  she  lifted  to 
Everard’s  that  made  him  shiver  inwardly. 

“I  think,”  he  replied  gently,  “that  their  characters  were  un- 
siiited  to  each  other.  Cyril  needed  a wife  of  stronger  intellect,  and 
Marion  a man  of  less  complex  character,  whom  she  could  have 
understood  and  appreciated.  You  know,  I always  said  that  her 
health  would  give  way  under  unhappiness : she  needed  the  gentlest 
cherishing.  And  she  is  at  rest  now,  Lilian,  and  it  is  well  with  her,” 
he  added,  with  a faint  tremble  in  his  voice.  “ I urged  the  mar- 
riage because  I knew  that  the  disappointment  would  kill  her.” 

They  were  sitting  in  the  bay  of  the  drawing-room  window 
during  this  conversation,  the  bells  were  dropping  their  slow  chime, 
laden  with  memories,  into  Everard’s  heart  and  ears,  and  people 
were  walking  churchward  in  little  groups  through  the  lane  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden.  Then  the  drawing-room  door  opened  sud- 
denly, and,  with  a rustle  of  silk  and  a glow  of  fine  raiment,  a most 
beautiful  young  lady  entered  unannounced,  and  embraced  Everard 
in  a rapturous  manner,  calling  him  her  dear  Henry,  and  saying  how 
delighted  she  was  to  see  him  again,  and  how  she  should  have  known 
him  anywhere. 

“This  is  very  agreeable,”  he  replied,  recovering  himself,  “but 
rather  embarrassing.” 

“But  don’t  you  know  me,  Henry?  ” she  cried. 

“Have  you  forgotten  Winnie?  ” asked  Lilian. 

“ And  here  is  my  husband.  Surely  you  remember  him  ? ” said 
Winnie,  turning  to  Sir  Ingram  Swaynestone,  who  had  followed  her 
in,  with  a fair-haired  child  in  his  hand,  and  who  was  a much  more 


324 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


portly  and  imposing  personage  than  he  had  been  eighteen  years 
ago. 

Ingram  thought  that  the  homicide,  by  whomsoever  committed, 
had  at  least  been  nnintentional.  He  could  not  refuse  this  meeting 
without  paining  the  sisters,  which  he  was  too  good-natured  to  do. 
He  therefore  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

“I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  there  was  some  mistake  in  that 
business  of  poor  Lee’s,”  he  said,  after  greeting  Henry,  “though  it 
is  hard  to  doubt  the  evidence  of  one’s  senses.  I hope.  Dr.  Everard, 
we  shall  be  able  to  forget  the  parts  we  had  to  play  then.” 

“1  hope  so,”  replied  Everard,  feeling  that  Swaynestone  could 
not  meet  him  without  some  such  concession,  but  seeing  very  plainly 
that  he  did  not  doubt  the  evidence  of  his  senses. 

“ This  is  our  daughter  Lilian,”  Sir  Ingram  added,  thus  ending  a 
rather  embarrassing  pause,  bidding  the  child  go  and  shake  hands, 
which  she  stoutly  refused  to  do. 

“Naughty  little  thing!  Her  father  spoils  her  shamefully,”  said 
Winnie ; “ simply  for  the  sake  of  her  name,  I believe.  But  little 
girls  who  won’t  shake  hands  with  gentlemen  will  never  be  like 
Aunt  Lilian,”  she  added  severely. 

“ And  where  is  Lionel  ? ” asked  Lilian,  taking  the  child  on  her 
knee.  “ Is  he  not  going  to  church  ? ” 

“Master  Lionel  was  not  in  a devout  frame  of  mind  this  morn- 
ing,” replied  his  father.  “ When  requested  to  indue  his  go-to- 
meeting  clothes,  he  threw  himself  on  the  ground  and  roared  witli 
the  vigor  of  ten  boys,  so,  of  course,  he  had  his  way.  Can  you 
imagine  who  spoils  Lion,  Aunt  Lilian  ? ” 

“Poor  darling!  ” said  Lady  Swaynestone;  “I  am  sure  he  is  not 
well.  His  nervous  system  is  so  quickly  upset.” 

“Me  don’t  like  him  hands,”  observed  little  Lilian  at  this  junct- 
ure, pointing  to  Henry’s  hands;  but,  with  the  waywardness  of  her 
age,  she  was  struck  at  the  same  moment  by  the  expression  of  his 
face,  and  climbed  on  his  knee  with  the  utmost  confidence. 

“By  the  way,  we  had  a letter  from  the  Very  Reverend  yester- 
day,” said  Winnie.  “ He  wrote  very  hurriedly  in  answer  to  a busi- 
ness letter  of  Ingram’s,  but  he  said  that  Lennie’s  ship  is  coming 
home  with  the  squadron ; also  that  the  rumor  of  his  engagement  to 
that  girl  at  Malta  is  well  founded,  so  we  suppose  there  will  be  a 
Mrs.  Lennie  before  long.” 

“ Father  and  I have  long  been  prepared  to  receive  the  girl  at 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLjlND, 


325 


Lilian  said ; and  she  opened  an  album,  and  showed  Everard 
the  photograph  of  a fine  young  naval  officer,  whom  he  recognized 
as  his  old  playfellow  Lennie. 

They  were  setting  oflf  for  the  church,  when  a lady,  dressed  in  a 
conventual  garb,  entered  the  gate  and  came  to  meet  them. 

“I  am  quite  disappointed,”  she  said,  with  a smile  that  brought 
back  old  times  to  Everard  ; “ I wanted  to  be  the  first  to  meet  Dro 
Everard,  and  welcome  him.  I see  that  you  have  forgotten  Ethel 
Swaynestone,  Dr.  Everard.” 

‘‘I  was  not  prepared  for  the  dress,”  replied  Everard,  wondering 
at  the  bright  flush  which  overspread  her  thin,  delicate  face;  for  he 
did  not  dream  that  the  romance  of  her  life  owned  him  as  her  central 
figure. 

“Dr.  Everard  has  not  yet  seen  the  hospital,  Ethel,”  said  Lilian; 
and  then  it  was  explained  to  him  that  Lilian  had  caused  two  cot- 
tages to  be  built,  one  for  convalescents  and  one  for  sick  poor  people, 
and  had  placed  them  under  the  charge  of  Miss  Swaynestone’s  sister- 
hood, a sister  from  which  always  lived  there,  and,  with  help  from 
Lilian,  nursed  the  parish  sick  in  their  own  homes  or  at  the  cot- 
tages. 

“The  question  is,  what  does  Lilian  not  do?”  commented  Sir 
Ingram.  “ She  scolds  all  the  drunkards  and  scamps  ; she  arranges 
all  the  matrimonial  squabbles — Winnie  and  T dare  not  for  the  life 
of  us  have  a comfortable  wrangle  together ; she  exhorts  the  naughty 
children ; she  makes  up  the  quarrels  of  sweethearts ; she  makes 
people’s  wills  for  them ; she  keeps  an  asylum  for  aged  and  useless 
beasts  of  every  description ; she  engages  servants  that  nobody  else 
can  put  up  with,  and  turns  them  out  marvels  of  perfection ; she  en- 
tertains dipsomaniacs  and  other  bad  characters  at  the  Eectory,  and. 
sends  them  back  candidates  for  canonization ; she  tames  unruly  ani- 
mals for  miles  round,  and  heals  sick  ones  ; nobody  ever  dreams  of 
getting  married  or  born,  of  buying  a field,  or  going  to  service,  with- 
out first  asking  her  advice; — in  short,  she  is  the  most  fearful  busy- 
body at  large.  And,  to  crown  all,  she  insists  on  marrying  a ticket- 
of-leave  man,”  he  added,  within  himself. 

It  was  delicious  to  Everard  to  go  through  the  old  Sunday  rou- 
tine again,  and  think  that  this  simple,  quiet,  wholesome  life  had 
been  going  on  all  through  those  weary  prison  years.  There  was 
Mr.  Marvyn,  the  curate,  who  had  instructed  his  youth,  preaching 
the  old  familiar  sermons,  with  their  scraps  of  learning  and  difficult 


326 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


theological  and  ethical  problems,  which  flew  so  far  over  the  heads 
of  the  slumbering  congregation ; there  was  the  harmonium,  a little 
touched  with  asthma,  and  played,  as  of  yore,  by  Mrs.  Wax,  who, 
with  her  husband,  had  survived  all  the  changes,  and  gallantly  faced 
all  the  requirements  of  new  education  codes ; there  were  the  whole 
clan  of  Hales  and  Straun,  and  the  discontented  tailor,  whose  dis- 
content was  now  silvered  by  the  dignity  of  hoar  hairs,  and  William 
Grove,  and  his  mate  Jem. 

Job  Stubbs,  the  chorister  whose  levity  had  been  publicly  re- 
buked by  his  pastor,  now  sat  among  the  basses,  and  thundered  out 
deep  chest-notes  from  beneath  his  white  surplice,  himself  the 
parent  of  light-hearted  boys  and  girls ; Dicky  Stevens,  also  a hus- 
band and  father,  sat  near  him  as  of  old,  but  led  the  tenors  instead 
of  the  trebles,  and  sent  his  naughty  boys  to  be  tamed  by  the  hand 
which  had  redeemed  his  own  youth  from  the  tyranny  of  the  stick. 
In  the  afternoon  Mr.  Maitland  preached  in  the  sweet,  paternal, 
simple  strain  that  had  so  impressed  Everard’s  youth,  with  the 
beautiful  Maitland  voice  and  manner,  and  the  pure  diction  he  had 
loved. 

It  was  easy  to  see  whence  the  dean’s  great  powers  were  de- 
rived; it  was  impossible  not  to  think  that  talents  as  great,  nay, 
perhaps  in  some  respects  greater,  than  his  were  buried  in  this  hum- 
ble little  village.  His  son’s  sudden  flights  of  inspiration  were  in- 
deed wanting  in  the  village  priest’s  quiet  eloquence,  but  his  ser- 
mons had  something  that  was  lacking  in  the  dean’s— namely,  the 
steady  glow  of  a fervid  and  unaffected  piety,  which  only  aimed  at 
making  his  hearers  better  men  and  women,  and  thought  not  of  am 
bition  and  self.  Nunc  Dimittis  was  the  good  old  gentleman’s 
theme,  and  it  fllled  Everard’s  heart  with  a beautiful  peace.  He  did 
not  know  how  appropriate  it  was  to  the  occasion,  since  he  did  not 
dream  that  these  were  the  last  words  the  gentle  priest  was  to  say 
to  his  flock;  nor  did  he  dream  that  the  sermon  which  he  knew 
Cyril  was  then  preaching  before  so  different  an  audience  in  Bel- 
minster  Cathedral  was  to  be  the  last  of  the  brilliant  and  soul- 
searching  orations  which  had  won  him  so  lustrous  a name. 

^‘My  children,”  said  Mr.  Maitland,  in  conclusion,  “I  beseech 
you  to  keep  innocency ; for  that,  and  that  alone,  shall  bring  a man 
peace  at  the  last.”  Strange  echo  of  his  son’s  first  .sermon  in  that 
church ! 

It  had  been  whispered  about  that  the  broken,  wistful-eyed  man 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


327 


sitting  in  the  Kectory  pew  was  no  other  than  the  too-notorious  Dr. 
Everard,  whose  trial  and  sentence  were  still  so  fresh  in  the  village 
memory.  Searching  glances  were  directed  upon  him  during  after- 
noon sermon,  and  many  eyes  recognized  the  features  of  the  hand- 
some and  hopeful  young  doctor  under  his  wan  and  changed  aspect, 
so  that,  when  Everard  came  forth  into  the  afternoon  sunshine,  he 
was  surprised  to  see  a little  lane  formed  about  the  churchyard 
path,  and  to  find  himself  accosted  by  name.  There  had  from  the 
first  been  a faction  in  the  village  convinced  of  Everard’s  innocence. 
It  was  the  head  of  this  faction  who  now  spoke. 

“ Glad  to  see  you  hack,  sir,”  blurted  out  Straun,  with  a perspir- 
ing eflfort,  as  he  took  ofiThis  hat  and  held  out  his  great  hand.  We 
knowed  you  never  done  it.” 

“Ay,  we  knowed  you  never  done  it,”  chimed  in  William  Grove, 
and  some  others,  advancing  also  with  outstretched  hand.  “ Gran- 
fer,  he  knowed  you  never  done  it ; and  this  here  is  Granfer’s  tomb- 
stone,” added  the  shepherd  who  had  seen  Everard  on  his  road  to 
Widow  Dove’s  on  the  fatal  afternoon,  bringing  his  hard  hand  down 
on  the  stone  as  if  its  existence  were  a solid  proof  of  Granfer’s 
valuable  opinion  on  the  subject. 

“ And  Widow  Dove,”  said  Tom  Hale,  the  old  soldier,  “ as  her 
daughter  married  my  wife’s  brother,  as  set  up  in  the  hardware  line 
at  Oldport,  it  lay  on  her  conscience  when  she  come  to  die,  as  she 
never  said  nothing  about  her  fire  being  out  that  afternoon,  and  no 
candle,  and  the  door  shut,  when  you  came  up  and  thought  the 
house  empty.  Many’s  the  time  she’ve  spoke  of  that  to  my  wife  on 
her  dying  bed,  as  helped  nurse  her,  and  had  it  wrote  in  the  family 
Bible.” 

“ And  my  little  gal,  she  minds  now  how  you  give  her  the  penny 
that  night,”  added  William  Grove,  pushing  forward  a bashful, 
buxom  young  woman,  with  a child  in  her  arms,  who  curtseyed  and 
blushed.  “Growed  up  she  is,  and  made  a granfer  of  me,  zure 
enough,”  her  father  added. 

Everard  could  scarcely  speak ; he  could  only  grasp  each  prof- 
fered hand  and  murmur  some  vague  words  of  thanks,  hut  his  heart 
was  deeply  stirred  as  he  passed  along  the  lane  of  kindly,  hearty 
faces,  and  went  out  into  the  road,  where  he  found  Farmer  Long 
and  his  family,  who  were  waiting  to  welcome  him  and  express 
their  sorrow  at  the  unmerited  calamity  which  had  befallen  him. 

This  little  outburst  on  the  part  of  the  stolid,  undemonstrative 


328 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  3TAITLAND, 


rusticcj  w'as  so  unexpected,  and  so  strong  a proof  of  the  feeling 
with  which  his  innocence  was  regarded  by  some  of  his  old  friends, 
though  not,  as  he  well  knew,  by  all,  that  it  almost,  overpowered 
him,  and  he  was  glad  to  take  refuge  within  the  Eectory  gate.  On 
turning  to  shut  it,  he  saw  his  friends  still  standing  in  the  afternoon 
sunlight,  with  their  hats  off  till  he  should  have  vanished  from  their 
sight,  and  he  again  removed  his  own. 

He  sat  with  Mr.  Maitland  and  Lilian  under  the  thick-leaved 
lime-tree,  silent  and  happy,  watching  the  shadows  turn  soft  and 
slant,  and  the  swallows  dart  across  the  sunny  blue,  while  the  father 
and  daughter  told  him  many  things  that  had  come  to  pass  in  his 
absence,  and  tea  was  brought  out ; and,  finally,  Mr.  Maitland  sank 
into  the  peaceful  slumber  which  usually  followed  his  Sunday 
labors.  Then  Lilian  took  the  cat  in  her  arms,  and  walked  toward 
the  field  to  visit  her  invalid  animals. 

“ Why  do  you  carry  that  great  creature  ? ” asked  Everard.  “ Let 
me  take  him  for  you.” 

‘‘  As  if  Mark  would  suffer  any  one  else  to  carry  him  ! ” laughed 
Lilian,  as  the  cat,  with  an  indignant  look  at  Everard,  clasped  his 
fore  paws  round  her  neck,  and  rubbed  his  head  against  her  cheek. 
“You  can  not  imagine  how  I love  the  thing,  Henry;  he  is  a link 
with  the  past.  Do  you  remember  the  day  we  found  him,  a stray, 
half-starved  kitten,  up  by  Temple  Copse?  It  was  the  Christmas 
vacation,  and  you  and  I and  Cyril  were  talking  about  his  chance  of 
taking  honors.  How  happy  we  were!  ” 

“It  was  a frosty  day,”  continued  Everard,  musingly,  “and  the 
kitten  was  numb  with  cold  till  you  warmed  it  in  your  furs.  Its 
bones  were  staring  through  its  skin.” 

“ And  it  has  loved  me  ever  since — me  and  Cyril  only.  Mark 
never  forgets  Cyril,  but  runs  to  him  still,”  said  Lilian,  stroking  the 
warm  soft  fur.  “ Only  once  did  Mark  make  a mistake — on  that 
fatal  evening  when  he  ran  after  the  gray  figure  in  the  dusk,  else  he 
never  ran  after  any  human  being  but  myself  and  Cyril.  Was  it  not 
strange,  Henry  ? ” she  added,  finding  that  he  made  no  comment. 

“The  whole  occurrence  was  strange,  dearest,  and  better  forgot- 
ten,” he  replied  evasively. 

“ Do  you  think  it  was  an  optical  delusion  ? ” she  persisted,  after 
'^ome  trivial  and  irrelevant  remarks  on  the  part  of  Everard,  who 
wished  to  change  the  subject. 

“ No  doubt  it  was ; perhaps  a light  was  reflected  from  some 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


329 


quarter  by  the  opening  of  a door.  Who  knows?  One  is  often 
deceived  in  the  twilight,  when  everything  is  more  or  less  ghostly. 
That  old  beech  still  stands.  It  will  be  down  some  stormy  night.” 

‘‘Cats  are  not  deceived  by  the  twilight,”  continued  Lilian,  with 
a tremor  in  her  voice ; “ they  see  better  in  the  dusk.  Oh,  Henry,” 
she  added,  with  a stifled  cry,  “ there  was  but  one  the  cat  ever  foL 
lowed!  ” 

She  was  trembling,  and  for  the  moment  Everard  paused  with  a 
blanched  cheek,  unable  to  say  anything. 

“You  have  brooded  too  long  over  this,”  he  said  at  last,  with  a 
lame  efibrt  at  lightness,  “ and  your  imagination  creates  bugbears 
from  it.  The  cat  probably  saw  or  smelt  a mouse,  and  ran  after 
that.  Or  he  may  have  been  merely  frisking  about,  as  cats  do,  in 
the  dusk.  Think  no  more  of  it,  Lilian.  Let  us 'bury  that  troubled 
past  for  ever.” 

“ It  is  not  possible,  Henry,”  she  replied,  still  trembling.  “ Things 
that  are  branded  into  one  can  never  be  forgotten.  Dear  Henry, 
tell  me  one  thing.  Do  you  know  who  did  that  dreadful  thing  for 
which  you  suffered  ? ” 

“ How  should  I know  ? ” he  returned,  in  a hard  voice  that  he 
could  not  control.  “ I do  not  think  it  will  be  known,  Lilian,  till 
the  day  when  all  things  are  revealed.  There  is  an  impenetrable 
mystery  about  it.  Let  it  remain.  Why  lift  the  veil?  ” 

Lilian  gazed  earnestly  upon  his  troubled  and  averted  face,  and 
then  said,  in  low,  thrilling  tones,  “ Henry,  you  Tcnow  who  killed 
Benjamin  Lee,  and  you  know  that  the  man  who  did  it  wore  your 
clothes  and  passed  up  the  staircase  in  the  dusk  that  night.” 

Everard’s  heart  stood  still,  and  his  temples  throbbed.  “ Dear,” 
he  replied,  “I  do  know  who  killed  that  poor  man,  but  I do  not 
wish  to  reveal  it.  I have  known  it  for  eighteen  years,  and  have 
seen  no  cause  for  revealing  it.  Such  knowledge  would  benefit  no 
human  being;  it  would  inflict  terrible  suffering  on  some.  Do  not 
tempt  me  to  break  my  silence,  Lilian  ; it  is  a point  of  honor.” 

Lilian  had  dropped  the  cat  on  the  grass,  and  was  leaning  against 
the  light  iron  fence  of  the  paddock.  She  now  turned,  and,  clasp- 
ing Everard’s  arm  with  convulsive  force,  looked  imploringly  in  his 
face. 

“Tell  m*e,”  she  cried,  “tell  me  that  it  is  not  so — that  I am  mis- 
taken ; that  it  was  a bad  dream — an  evil  fancy!  Say,  oh,  Henry,  if 
you  love  me,  say  it  was  not  Tie  ! ” 


330 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


She  was  sobbing  now,  and  quivering  all  over  in  unspeakable 
agitation — she  who  was  so  calm  and  self-controlled  usually.  Henry 
drew  her  to  him,  and  strove  by  caresses  and  words  of  love  to  soothe 
her,  but  was  liimself  far  too  much  agitated  to  be  able  to  deceive  her. 

“Oh I”  she  cried,  “I  can  not,  can  not  bear  it!  My  Cyril! 
my  own  brother  I my  poor,  poor  Cyril  I I understand  it  all  now.” 

“ You  know,  dearest,”  said  Everard  at  last,  with  grave,  compas- 
sionate tenderness,  “ that  nothing  can  happen  without  the  will  of 
God.” 

Lilian’s  sobs  became  quieter  at  these  words,  and  after  a time 
they  ceased,  and  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked  back  at  the  lime- 
tree,  beneath  the  shade  of  which  they  could  see  the  white  head  of 
her  sleeping  father. 

“ There  is  one,” 'said  Henry,  pointing  to  him,  “ who  must  never 
suspect.” 

“He  never  shall,”  replied  Lilian,  striving  to  regain  her  habitual 
self-command.  “But  oh,  my  poor,  poor  boy!  Such  awful  hypoc- 
risy. I would  not  suspect  for  a long  time  ; it  seemed  like  a tempta- 
tion of  the  evil  one.  Hot  until  Marion’s  death.  I think  she  was 
afraid  to  let  herself  think.  But  she  told  me  so  much  when  she  was 
dying.  And  Cyril — ah,  Henry,  he  was  always  weak  ! But  a traitor ! 
oh,  it  seems  incredible  ! Ah,  what  a dark  and  terrible  mystery  our 
nature  is!  And  he  let  you  suffer,  you  who  loved  him  so!  Oh,  my 
Henry!  ” 

“You  know,  Lilian,”  repeated  Everard,  in  unutterable  love  and 
pity,  “it  was  permitted  by  the  Divine  Will.”  And  the  words  again 
had  a quieting  effect  upon  Lilian,  who  had  now  regained  her  serene 
charm  of  face  and  manner,  inwardly  torn  as  she  was. 

“ And  you  saw  him  ? ” she  asked.  “ How  could  he  meet  you? 
What  could  he  say?  Oh,  how  can  he  have  lived  this  lie,  and  borne 
this  awful  burden  all  these  years  ? ” 

“His  burden  was  heavier  than  mine,”  Everard  said;  and  then 
he  described  their  meeting  in  the  cathedral,  Oyril’a  passionate  ser- 
mon, his  terrible  agitation  on  recognizing  him  among  the  crowded 
congregation,  and  his  own  letter  of  forgiveness  to  the  unhappy  man. 

But  they  each  wondered  that  he  had  not  yet  answered  the  letter. 

“ Doubtless  there  will  be  an  answer  to-morrow,”  said  Everard. 

“ And  I must  go  to  him  and  tell  him  that  I know  and  pity  all,” 
said  Lilian.  “ Yes,  there  will  be  an  answer  to-morrow.” 

But  the  answer  never  came. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


331 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

It  was  said  that  the  pope,  on  being  asked  once  if  he  knew  any- 
thing of  the  Church  of  England,  replied  that  he  thought  he  remem- 
bered having  heard  something  about  an  eloquent  dean  in  that  com- 
munion, named  Maitland.  Others  told  the  story  differently,  and 
averred  that  it  was  Bishop  Oliver  who  had  conferred  such  luster  on 
the  national  Church. 

The  bishop  himself,  on  being  asked  whom  he  considered  the  first 
preacher  in  the  Church,  had  replied  that  Dean  Maitland  was  undoubt- 
edly the  second,,  his  interrogator  divining,  from  a shrewd  twinkle 
in  the  episcopal  eye,  that  there  would  be  a lack  of  delicacy  in 
pressing  him  to  name  the  first.  The  same  querist,  on  putting  a simi- 
lar question  to  the  dean,  had  been  met  by  a genial  smile,  and  the 
candid  but  laughing  avow^al  that  he  had  never  heard  any  one  com- 
pared to  himself,  unless  it  was  the  bishop ; for  the  dean’s  ingenu- 
ous, almost  childlike,  candor  was  not  one  of  the  least  of  his  social 
charms. 

The  two  ecclesiastics  were  rivals  not  only  in  the  pulpit,  but  in 
the  world.  Both  were  favorites  at  Court  and  in  general  society ; 
but  the  bishop  lacked  the  personal  beauty  and  grace  of  the  dean, 
and,  though  a good  talker  and  clever  raconteur,,  and  possessed  of  a 
fund  of  genuine  humor,  he  had  not  the  dean’s  bright,  swift  wit  or 
his  light  and  playful  touch  in  conversation : his  mirth,  like  his  in- 
tellect, was  elephantine  in  comparison  with  the  pard-like  graceful- 
ness of  the  dean’s.  Nor  did  the  bishop  possess  that  rare  and  mag- 
netic power  of  attracting  and  subjugating  people’s  hearts  peculiar 
to  Cyril  Maitland,  and  given  to  a few  choice  spirits  destined  to  rule 
men. 

His  features  were  square,  massive,  and  expressive  of  solid  intel- 
lect, unvisited  by  the  lightning  flashes  of  emotion  and  thought 
which  gave  new  beauty  to  the  dean’s  beautiful  face.  Bishop  Oliver 
was  past  middle  age,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  never  been  young, 
while  the  dean  looked  as  if  he  could  never  be  old.  He  was  a good 
man,  though  human.  In  all  the  farthest  recesses  of  his  memory 
there  was  nothing  he  feared  to  look  at ; there  was  no  spiritual  trag- 
edy in  his  life;  he  was  unacquainted  with  the  depths  of  human 
agony.  Thus  his  sermons,  though  possessing  a more  level  and  sus- 
tained excellence  than  the  dean’s,  though  showing  greater  intellect 


332 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


and  learning,  had  infinitely  less  power  to  touch  men’s  heart’s;  nor 
was  he  ever  carried  away  beyond  the  limits  of  his  will,  and  thus 
enabled  to  carry  others  away,  as  the  dean  was.  People  did  not  fly 
to  him  for  spiritual  help,  as  they  did  to  the  dean,  for  he  did  not 
possess  his  absolute  sympathy  with  the  sinful ; their  lives  and  ex= 
periences  differed  so  widely  from  his  own  spotless  career  that  lie 
could  not  but  regard  them  as  aliens,  strive  as  he  would  to  call  them 
brothers. 

But  there  was  something  in  Dean  Maitland’s  way  of  regarding 
sin  and  sinners  which  opened  the  darkest  recesses  of  people’s  hearts 
to  him,  and  men  had  not  feared  to  pour  into  his  sympathizing  ear 
things  which  it  froze  the  blood  to  hear.  Very  tender  was  the  heal- 
ing hand  he  laid  upon  sick  souls — tender  but  firm.  No  one  knew 
better  than  he  the  remedies  which  alone  can  heal  such  deadly  mala- 
dies, although,  like  many  physicians  of  the  body,  he  had  not  the 
strength  of  will  to  apply  his  prescriptions  to  his  own  case.  Of  this 
he  was  sometimes  conscious,  as  was  seen  in  his  last  sermon  to  can- 
didates for  ordination,  when  he  had  taken  for  text,  “ Lest  I myself, 
when  I have  preached  to  others,  should  become  a castaway.” 

Never  ^ for  a moment  let  it  be  thought  that  sin  is  in  any  way 
necessary  or  good  or  helpful,  anything  but  vile  and  injurious  in  itself 
or  in  its  far-reaching  consequences ; yet  it  is  an  undoubted  fact  that 
in  some  natures  a heavy  fall  leads  to  a higher  spiritual  development. 
Good  is  stronger  than  evil,  and  the  eternal  purpose  which  rules  in 
all  things,  and  against  which  nothing  human  can  prevail,  often  ap- 
pears to  bring  the  brightest  light  from  the  thickest  darkness.  Thus 
this  man’s  black  iniquity  was  made  an  instrument  of  healing  to 
others. 

The  bishop’s  detractors  accused  him  of  worldliness  and  ambition, 
and  said  that  he  misapplied  St.  Paul’s  injunction,  to  be  all  things  to 
all  men,  and  was  too  good  a courtier  to  be  a good  Christian. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  bishop,  being  human  as  well  as 
Christian,  did  greatly  love  the  esteem  of  men,  and  particularly  of 
princes,  and  in  his  heart  of  hearts  felt  it  hard  that  he  and  the  dean 
should  have  their  lines  cast  in  the  same  place,  expressly,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  that  the  luster  of  his  own  renown  might  be  dimmed  by  the 
greater  brilliance  of  his  rival’s.  They  were,  however,  the  best  of 
friends — for  even  the  bishop  was  subjugated  by  the  irresistible 
charm  of  his  rival’s  manner  whenever  he  came  into  personal  contact 
with  him — and  had  been  heard  to  observe,  after  one  of  these  slight 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


333 


differences  of  opinion  that  must  sometimes  arise  between  the  bishop 
and  the  dean,  that  it  was  pleasanter  to  be  at  war  with  Dean  Mait- 
land than  at  peace  with  the  majority  of  mankind.  Yet  it  was  said 
of  Bishop  Oliver  that  he  managed  never  to  he  at  war  with  mortal 
man,  Jew  or  papist,  churchman  or  dissenter,  atheist  or  fanatic. 

The  dean’s  preferment  to  the  see  of  Warham  was  at  once  a rose 
and  a thorn  to  the  bishop,,  a rose,  because  it  would  remove  his  rival 
to  such  a distance  that  he  would  no  longer  daily  overshadow  him  ; 
a thorn,  because  the  see  of  Warham  was  of  greater  dignity  and 
emolument  than  that  of  Belminster.  Thus  he  regarded  it  with 
mixed  feelings,  and  had  been  heard  to  say  that  from  the  deanery 
of  Belminster  to  the  episcopal  throne  of  Warham  was  a singularly 
sudden  leap. 

Not  that  Bishop  Oliver  for  a moment  accused  himself  of  so 
mean  a thing  as  jealousy ; he  imagined  himself  to  he  actuated  solely 
by  deep  solicitude  for  the  weal  of  Church  and  State,  which  he 
sincerely  thought  himself  better  calculated  to  serve  than  the  dean. 
But  when,  on  the  Sunday  following  the  dean’s  illness  in  the  pulpit, 
the  bishop  was  sitting  tranquilly  at  luncheon,  he  was  greatly  dis- 
composed by  an  observation  from  one  of  his  young  people,  to  the 
effect  that  the  premier  was  coming  down  to  Belminster  that  very 
afternoon  for  the  express  purpose,  it  was  said,  though  this  was  not 
the  case,  since  the  minister  chanced  to  be  passing  a Sunday  at  Dew- 
hurst  Castle,  of  hearing  the  bishop  designate  preach. 

“Nonsense,  my  dear  Mabel!”  he  said.  “ Ministers  have  some- 
thing better  to  do  than  to  he  running  about  after  popular  preachers, 
particularly  while  Parliament  is  in  session.” 

A young  clergyman  present  passed  his  napkin  before  his  face 
to  conceal  an  irrepressible  smile,  and  remembered  how  differently 
the  bishop  had  spoken  of  people  who  came  to  hear  him  preach. 

“Well,  my  dear  father,  I can  only  regret  the  levity  of  Mr.  Chad- 
well’s  disposition,”  returned  Mabel,  “for  he  certainly  telegraphed 
last  night  to  know  if  the  dean  was  to  preach  this  afternoon.” 

“ I thought,”  returned  the  bishop,  “ that  his  recovery  was  sin- 
gularly rapid.  He  was  very  ill  on  Friday.  It  is  a great  pity  that 
he  should  excite  himself  so  much  ; he  will  kill  himself  one  of  these 
days.  And  that  kind  of  sermon  does  no  permanent  good.” 

“ By  the  way,  sir,”  said  a son,  “ there  is  a queer  story  about  the 
dean.  Some  woman  who  died  at  the  hospital  last  week  accused 
him  of  all  manner  of  goings  on  with  her  last  breath,  I hear.” 


334 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


“Tittle-tattle,  Herbert;  nothing  more.  Local  celebrities  are 
always  the  centers  of  scandalous  report.” 

“The  fierce  light  that  beats  upon  a deanery,”  laughed  the 
young  fellow.  “ Well,  these  were  strange  doings  for  a dean,  I 
must  say,” 

The  bishop  adroitly  started  a fresh  topic,  but  he  could  not  help 
reflecting  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  the  doings  attributed  to  the 
dean  by  the  half-uttered,  half-suppressed  rumors  he  knew  to  be 
flying  about  were  indeed  remarkably  strange.  For  Alma’s  dying 
statement  had  not  been  made  in  private ; the  dean’s  delay  and  her 
own  extremity  had  rendered  her  desperate,  and  her  one  desire  was 
that  the  injustice  done  Everard  should  be  known.  He  could  not 
help  reflecting,  moreover,  that  there  was  probably  some  foundation 
for  the  rumors,  however  slight,  and  he  felt  that  he  should  not  be 
struck  dumb  with  surprise  if  he  learned  that  the  brilliant  and  hand- 
some ecclesiastic  had  sown  a few  wild  oats  in  his  hot  youth,  and 
bitterly  repented  the  harvest  such  sowing  always  entails.  He  had 
often  wondered  at  the  power  and  passion  with  which  he  depicted 
feelings  of  remorse;  yet  he  was  destined  to  be  greatly  surprised 
that  afternoon. 

The  cathedral  was  crowded.  People  sat  on  the  choir  steps  and 
filled  the  nave  to  the  farthest  limits  of  hearing ; chairs  were  placed 
north  and  south  of  the  choir ; the  choir  itself  was  as  full  as  its 
stately  decorum  permitted.  The  well-known  face  of  the  premier 
was  seen  among  the  worshipers.  This  gentleman  intended  calling 
at  the  Deanery  after  the  service,  and  had  sent  an  intimation  to  that 
effect. 

The  dean  smiled  rather  grimly  when  he  heard  who  was  to  be 
his  guest  that  afternoon,  and  speedily  quieted  the  agitation  into 
which  Miss  Mackenzie  was  always  thrown  at  the  prospect  of  visits 
from  people  of  distinction.  “ You  need  not  get  out  the  best  china,” 
he  said,  with  his  old  playful  way  of  alluding  to  stock  jests;  “I 
promise  you  that  the  minister  will  not  come.” 

He  was  going  to  the  cathedral,  manuscript  in  hand,  as  he  spoke. 
He  turned  back  again,  and  met  Miss  Mackenzie  descending  the 
stairs,  dressed  ready  for  the  cathedral,  and  she  observed  that  he 
was  paler  than  ever,  and  grave  as  he  had  been  since  his  seizure  on 
the  Friday  night. 

“ Dear  Miss  Mackenzie,”  he  said,  in  his  sweetest  way,  “ I have 
a little  favor  to  ask  you.” 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


385 


He  paused,  and  Miss  Mackenzie  began,  “Oh,  Mr.  Dean,  any- 
thing I can  do — ” for  she,  like  everybody  else,  felt  that  the  dean 
conferred  a favor  in  asking  one. 

“You  have  been  a good  friend,”  he  continued,  “and  I owe 
much  of  the  peace  and  comfort  of  my  home  to  you.’’ 

“ And  what  do  I not  owe  to  you  ? ” she  replied,  with  enthusiasm. 
“ How  happy  I have  been  here ! ” 

“I  hope,  indeed,  that  you  have  been  happy  under  my  roof,”  he 
Tvent  on.  “ I should  be  grieved  if  it  were  otherwise,  for  I am  not 
all  bad.  I only  want  you.  Miss  Mackenzie,  to  do  me  the  slight 
favor  of  staying  at  home  this  afternoon.” 

Then  he  turned  and  went,  leaving  the  gentlewoman  rooted  to 
the  ground  with  surprise  until  he  reached  the  door,  when  he  again 
turned  and  wished  her  good-by  in  a voice  that  she  never  for- 
got. Keflecting  on  this  little  incident  afterward,  she  regarded  it 
as  a strong  proof  of  the  solid  friendship  which  existed  between 
them,  and  enjoyed  many  a comfortable  cry  over  it  in  subsequent 
years. 

The  organ  was  rolling  great  waves  of  sorrowful  music  about  the 
vaulted  roof  of  the  cathedral.  Dr.  Kydal,  the  organist,  being 
plunged  in  one  of  those  fits  of  profound  melancholy  to  which  the 
artistic  temperament  is  liable.  Such  a gloom  had  not  brooded  over 
him  for  years,  and  all  his  efforts  to  shake  it  off  and  modulate  his 
mournful  cadences  into  more  joyous  harmonies  were  vain ; so  at 
last  he  gave  rein  to  it,  and  passed  out  of  one  minor  key  into  an- 
other, until  he  glided  finally  into  the  passionate  pleading  of  Men- 
delssohn’s “ O Lord,  have  mercy,  and  blot  out  my  transgression,” 
from  the  St.  Paul,  and  the  choir  paced  in  with  even  step,  a long 
procession  of  white  robes,  closed  by  the  dean’s  scarlet  hood  and 
the  bishop’s  lawn. 

People  noticed  the  dean’s  worn  face  and  his  look  of  utter  weari- 
ness, particularly  when  he  stood  up  to  read  the  First  Lesson,  yrhich 
chanced  to  contain  the  pathetic  story  of  the  death  of  Absalom,  and 
never,  they  thought,  was  the  pathos  of  that  divine  narrative,  the 
stumbling-block  and  the  despair  of  most  readers,  more  truly  and 
beautifully  rendered.  His  magnificent  voice  never  for  a moment 
escaped  his  control,  but  pealed  steadily  on,  giving  due  weight  and 
meaning  to  every  syllable,  and  throwing  the  full  measure  of  the 
stricken  and  penitent  father’s  anguish  into  the  heart-rending  words, 
“ O my  son  Absalom,  my  son,  my  son  Absalom ! would  God  I had 
22 


336 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


died  for  thee,  O Absalom,  my  son,  my  son ! ” — words  so  nobly  sim- 
ple in  their  unutterable  sorrow. 

Many  eyes  were  wet  when  the  dean  ended  his  reading,  and  most 
of  those  who  were  listening  remembered  of  how  many  Absaloms 
he  had  been  bereaved;  but  they  did  not  dream  bow  close  the 
parallel  was  between  him  and  the  crowned  mourner  of  Israel, 
who  knew  that  his  own  sin  had  wrought  him  these  terrible 
woes. 

He  had  not  observed  the  immense  concourse  of  people ; his  eyes 
had  been  bent  on  the  ground,  his  soul  had  been  too  conscious  of 
awful  presences,  too  occupied  by  eternal  realities,  to  be  disturbed 
by  anything  human  when  he  entered  the  holy  building.  But,  when 
he  finished  reading  and  was  turning  from  the  lectern,  the  force  of 
old  habit  was  so  strong  upon  him  that  he  lifted  his  head,  and  with 
one'  lightning  glance  swept  all  the  crowded  spaces  of  the  vast 
building,  and  encountered  the  multitudinous  gaze  of  the  great  sea 
of  faces. 

He  saw  the  premier,  the  familiar  figures  of  the  dwellers  in  the 
close,  and  the  people  from  the  city  and  its  environs,  the  fashion  of 
Belminster  and  its  commerce,  working  people  and  idlers,  the  known 
and  the  unknown,  the  choir  and  the  clergy,  the  bishop  and  the 
quaintly  clad  almsmen;  and,  quite  near  him.  Lady  Louisa,  with 
Lord  Arthur  and  the  duke  and  duchess,  who  had  driven  through 
the  hot  sun  all  the  way  from  the  castle  with , their  distinguished 
guest  for  the  express  purpose  of  hearing  the  famed  eloquence  of 
the  bishop-elect. 

He  thought  that  all  that  multitude  must  soon  know  his  shame, 
they  who  honored  him  and  hung  waiting  upon  his  words,  and  the 
thousand  eyes  bent  upon  him,  more  or  less  full  of  the  deep 
thoughts  stirred  by  the  divine  narrative  he  had  just  read  so  per- 
fectly, seemed  like  so  many  points  of  fiame  darting  into  the  most 
secret  recesses  of  his  soul ; he  turned  sick,  and  longed  for  the  pave- 
ment beneath  his  feet  to  yawn  and  swallow  him.  What  mortal 
could  bear  that  crushing  weight  of  scorn?  he  wondered.  The 
mere  anticipation  of  it  stopped  his  breath  and  made  his  heart  shud- 
der with  a piercing  pain ; it  must  certainly  kill  him. 

He  returned  to  his  stall,  against  the  dark  carved  work  of  which 
his  face  showed  like  some  beautiful  Greek  marble,  quite  as  white 
and  still,  and  the  organ  pealed,  and  the  voices  of  the  full  choir 
blended  in  magnificent  billows  of  song,  and  the  words  of  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


337 


Magnificat  fell  upon  his  unheeding  ear,  till  a bass  voice  separated 
itself  from  the  others  and  thundered  out,  “ He  hath  put  down  the 
mighty  from  their  seat,”  in  tones  which  seemed  to  convey  a special 
menace  to  bis  troubled  soul. 

The  great  congregation  seemed  to  melt  away,  and  before  his 
eyes  arose  the  face  that  had  never  left  him  since  the  moment  when 
he  first  saw  it,  two  nights  ago — the  worn  and  wasted  face  of  his 
betrayed  friend,  with  its  loyal  gaze  of  heroic  sadness  “ looking 
ancient  kindness”  upon  his  self* accusing  misery,  Never,  he 
thought,  while  he  lived,  would  the  look  of  that  face  cease  to 
haunt  him — never,  perhaps,  even  through  all  the  endless  ages  of 
eternity.  And  not  that  face  alone;  others  less  kindly  arose  to 
hunt  his  tortured  soul  with  their  glances. 

Alma  Lee,  in  all  the  luster  of  her  fresh,  unsullied  beauty,  as  he 
had  seen  her  in  her  father’s  house  on  the  night  when  he  rescued 
her  from  the  wagoner’s  rudeness;  Alma,  with  the  startled  self- 
betrayal in  her  guileless,  passionate  glance;  Alma,  a little  child, 
sporting  with  him  over  the  meadow,  wreathed  with  chains  of 
flowers  or  crowned  vnth  berry  crowns ; and  Alma,  ruined,  with  a 
new  and  sinister  splendor  in  her  beauty,  as  she  stood  and  swore 
away  the  honor  of  his  friend.  The  child  eyes  hurt  him  most; 
“Give  me  back  my  innocence,”  they  said,  in  their  dumb,  sweet 
appeal. 

Then  Ben  Lee  rose,  with  the  fierce  passion  in  his  livid  face,  and 
the  dreadful  stain  upon  it : “ Give  me  back  my  life,  and  the  honor 
of  my  child ! ” cried  his  angry,  accusing  glance.  He  saw  the 
estranged,  terrified  look  in  Marion’s  dying  eyes.  His  dead  babes 
came  with  strange  reproach  in  their  appealing  glances,  and  asked 
why  they  were  only  born  to  fade ; and  Lilian  looked  upon  him 
with  her  sweet  and  loving  gaze,  and  asked  dumbly  for  the  lover  of 
her  youth,  and  the  children  who  were  never  born.  “And  Lilian 
must  know  all,”  he  thought,  with  agony.  But  the  look  in  the  eyes 
of  the  betrayed  was  present  through  all,  and  that  look  was  like  an 
anchor  to  stay  his  shuddering  soul  upon. 

The  voices  of  the  choir  rose  upon  the  mighty  pinions  of  the 
anthem,  and  eased  his  heart  somewhat  of  its  sore  burden.  “ Hide 
thy  face  from  my  sins,  and  blot  out  all  my  misdeeds,”  they  sang  in 
strains  that  seemed  to  issue  from  the  depths  of  broken  hearts.  The 
sweet  and  sorrowful  music  sank  info  his  soul  with  healing  balm  ; a 
pure-toned  soprano  repeated  the  phrase  in  soul-subduing  melody. 


338 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


and  a solemn  peace  fell  upon  him  in  spite  of  all  those  visionary 
glances  turned  so  accusingly  toward  him. 

And  now  it  was  time  for  him  to  ascend  the  pulpit,  and  he  rose 
from  his  stall  with  his  accustomed  air  of  quiet  reverence,  and  walked 
up  the  choir.  As  he  went,  his  eye  fell  upon  that  symbol  of  sol- 
emn humbug — for  he  did  not  believe  in  it ; he  had  worn  it  and  ab- 
stained from  wine  only  for  the  sake  of  influence — the  scrap  of  blue 
ribbon  which  was  attached  to  his  surplice,  and  he  took  it  oflP  and 
cast  it  on  the  pavement  beneath  his  feet.  He  had  done  with  all 
fripperies  and  unrealities  now  ; his  soul  stood  at  last,  stripped  of  all 
pretense,  in  the  awful  presence  of  his  Maker. 

Save  that  his  face  was  very  pale,  and  there  were  purple  shadows 
about  his  mouth,  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  his  manner  as  he 
ascended  the  steps  to  the  pulpit  amid  the  rolling  harmonies  of  the 
hymn,  in  which  the  vast  congregation  joined,  and  looked  round  upon 
the  familiar  spectacle  of  the  multitude  of  faces.  There  he  stood, 
one  sinful  man  in  the  presence  of  many  sinful  men,  erring  and  weak 
and  weary,  and  all  unworthy  of  the  garb  he  wore,  yet  the  ambas- 
sador of  high  heaven,  and  charged  with  a divine  message — a solitary 
figure  on  an  awful  eminence. 

It  was  a beautiful,  an  inspiring,  and  to  him  a familiar  scene, 
which  offered  itself  to  his  gaze.  Immediately  beneath  and  around 
him,  shut  in  by  the  dark,  rich  cavity  of  the  choir,  were  the  white 
robes  of  the  choristers,  interspersed  with  the  bright  silk  hoods  of 
the  clergy,  and  the  gay  and  rich  summer  dresses  of  ladies,  just 
relieved  by  a sprinkling  of  black  coats.  All  down  the  nave  spread 
a dark,  dimly  seen  mass  of  human  beings,  varied  by  the  glow  of  a 
soldier’s  coat,  or  the  brightness  of  a woman’s  dress  catching  the 
broad  afternoon  light,  which,  streaming  through  the  great  west 
window,  and  falling  in  broken  rays  of  many-colored  glory  here  and 
there,  or  entering  through  the  clear  aisle  windows,  shed  a diffused 
whiteness  over  all. 

On  either  side  the  choir,  aisle  and  transept  presented  the  same 
aspect  of  massed  humanity  ; some  long,  dusty  rods  of  golden  light 
fell  athwart  the  shadowy  choir,  and  turned  a black  oak  crocket  or 
fretted  pinnacle  to  gold;  and  from  all  that  vast  mass  of  standing 
worshipers  rose  the  mighty  surge  of  a penitential  hymn,  and  rolled 
in  solemn,  far-spreading  billows  around  the  sinful  man  who  stood  a 
witness  between  earth  and  heaven  upon  the  solitary  height. 

But  the  dean’s  steadfast,  forward  gaze  saw  nothing  of  the  speo 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


339 


tacle  before  him,  a spectacle  so  wont  to  inspirit  him  to  his  loftiest 
flights  ; he  was  not  even  conscious  of  those  haunting,  accusing 
glances  from  the  past : was  conscious,  for  those  few  brief  moments 
in  which  he  strove  to  nerve  himself  to  an  effort  beyond  his  strength, 
of  nothing  but  the  presence  of  the  Maker  against  whom  he  had 
sinned,  and  saw  only  the  sorrowful  glance  which  has  gazed  from 
the  Cross  all  down  the  ages  upon  the  deeds  of  sinful  men.  His  soul 
stood,  stripped  and  shuddeidng  with  the  shame  of  its  uncovered  sin, 
in  the  searching  light  of  the  awful  glance  from  which  the  flrst  sin- 
ner vainly  tried  to  hide. 

The  vast  surge  of  the  hymn  subsided,  the  plaintive  murmurs  of 
the  organ  died  away  lingeringly  among  the  echoing  aisles,  the  wor- 
shipers rustled  to  their  seats,  and  every  eye  was  turned  expectantly 
upon  the  preacher,  who  quailed  slightly  before  the  innumerable 
gaze,  and,  coming  to  himself,  thought  wdth  agony  of  the  thing  that 
must  soon  lie  bare  and  open  before  them.  His  lips  blanched  in  the 
strenuous  anguish  of  his  internal  conflict,  and  the  power  of  speech 
deserted  him  for  a second  or  two.  His  manuscript  lay  open  and 
ready  on  the  desk ; he  looked  upon  and  read  the  neatly  written 
text.  Then  he  took  from  his  pocket  a piece  of  folded  paper,  which 
he  held  in  his  left  hand,  as  if  it  were  some  talisman,  and  found 
strength  to  begin. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

As  he  opened  his  lips,  a vision  of  the  little  church  at  Malbourne 
rushed  swiftly  before  his  mental  gaze.  He  saw  the  familiar  faces 
clustered  about  the  heavy  gray  pillars,  and.  the  reverend  figure  of 
his  father  in  the  ancient  pulpit,  and  all  the  holy  counsels  uttered  in 
that  father’s  beloved  voice  came  upon  him  in  one  moment ; but  he 
did  not  know  that  this  his  father’s  last  sermon  was  the  echo  of  his 
own  first. 

He  gave  out  his  text,  “I  confess  ray  wickedness,  and  be 
sorry  for  my  sin,”  and  began  quietly  reading  from  the  manuscript 
before  him  in  a clear  and  harmonious  but  strikingly  level  tone, 
which,  though  audible  all  over  the  building,  did  not  correct  the  gen- 
eral tendency  to  drowsiness  on  that  hot  and  drowsy  afternoon. 

The  premier  and  those  who  heard  him  for  the  first  time  were 


340 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


disappointed,  the  premier  deciding  within  himself  that  he  would  not 
confer  much  luster  upon  the  oratory  of  the  Upper  House,  and  would 
never  endanger  Bishop  Oliver’s  position  as  the  best  speaker  on  the 
Bench. 

It  was  a sermon  such  as  dozens  of  clergymen  turn  out  every  day. 
The  preacher  exhorted  his  hearers  to  repent  and  confess  their  sins. 
He  reminded  them  that  repentance  is  the  first  and  last  duty  which 
the  Church  enjoins  on  her  children.  He  alluded  to  the  differing 
practice  of  the  Church  in  different  ages  with  regard  to  it,  and  its 
exaggeration  in  the  Roman  Communion  and  in  old  American  Puri- 
tan days.  He  observed  that  some  sins  exacted  public  confession. 
At  this  point  he  became  a little  paler,  and  his  voice  rose  on  its  ac- 
customed sonorous  swell.  He  said  that  it  was  a right  and  whole- 
some feeling  which  prostrated  a crowned  king  before  the  tomb  of 
the  murdered  archbishop  at  Canterbury,  kept  an  emperor  barefoot 
in  the  snow  at  Canossa,  and  humiliated  Theodosius  before  the  closed 
gates  of  Milan  Cathedral.  ‘‘Do  you  know,  my  brothers,”  he  con- 
tiued,  with  a thrill  of  intense  feeling  in  his  voice,  “ why  I speak 
to-day  of  the  duty  of  public  confession  of  public  sin  ? I have  a 
purpose.”  , 

He  paused.  For  some  moments  there  reigned  that  dead  silence 
which  is  so  awfully  impressive  in  a vast  assembly  of  living  and 
breathing  human  beings.  He  paused  so  long  that  people  grew  un- 
comfortable, thinking  he  must  be  ill,  and  the  buzzing  of  a perplexed 
humble-bee,  which  had  somehow  strayed  into  the  choir,  and  was 
tumbling  aimlessly  against  people’s  heads,  sounded  loud  and  profane, 
and  the  man  who  could  not  repress  a sneeze  and  the  lady  who  let 
her  prayer-book  fall  felt  each  guilty  of  an  unpardonable  crime. 
Meantime,  the  dean  gazed  quietly  before  him,  and  no  one  saw  the 
chill  drops  of  agony  which  beaded  his  brow,  or  suspected  the  an- 
guish which  literally  rent  his  heart. 

The  bishop  with  difficulty  suppressed  a grunt  of  disapproval. 
“ He  pauses  for  effect,”  he  thought;  “now  for  the  fireworks!  Di- 
vine rage  consumes  the  dean  I Out  with  the  handkerchiefs.  If 
people  must  rant,  why  on  earth  can’t  they  rant  in  barns?  ” 

“My  brothers,”  continued  the  dean,  at  last  breaking  the  thrill- 
ing silence,  and  speaking  in  a low  but  perfectly  clear  and  audible 
voice,  “it  is  because  I myself  am  the  most  grievous  of  sinners,  and 
have  sinned  publicly  in  the  face  of  this  great  congregation,  the 
muanest  among  whom  I am  unworthy  to  address,  because  I wish  to 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


341 


confess  my  wickedness,  and  tell  you  that  I am  sorry  for  my  sin. 
I have  no  right  to  be  standing  in  this  place  to-day ; to  be  the  parish 
priest,  as  it  were,  of  this  noble  building;  to  fill  an  otfice  hallowed 
by  the  service  of  a long  line  of  saintly  men.  My  life  has  been  one 
black  lie.  The  three  darkest  blots  upon  the  soul  of  man — impurity^ 
Moodshed^  treachery — have  stained  my  soul.” 

At  these  words  there  was  a faint  rustle  of  surprise  through  all 
the  congregation.  The  bishop  frowned  ; “He  drives  his  theatrical 
exaggeration  too  far,”  he  thought.  The  duke  and  Lord  Arthur  re- 
covered from  the  gentle  slumber  the  sermon’s  beginning  had  induced. 
Every  eye  was  fixed  in  wonder,  interest,  or  incredulity  upon  the 
marble  features  of  the  preacher — that  is,  every  eye  v/ithin  the  choir; 
while  to  those  outside  it,  who  heard  the  voice  from  an  invisible 
source,  the  effect  was  doubled. 

“My  life,”  he  continued,  “has  been  outwardly  successful  in  no 
small  degree.  I have,  in  spite  of  my  sin,  been  permitted  to  minister 
to  sick  souls;  for  the  Almighty  is  pleased  sometimes  to  use  the 
vilest  instruments  for  noble  ends.  I have  sat  at  good  men’s  feasts, 
an  honored  guest ; yes,  and  at  the  tables  of  the  great,  the  very  great- 
est in  the  land.  I have  risen  to  a position  of  eminence  in  the  minis- 
try of  our  national  Church — that  Church  whose  meanest  office  better 
men  that  I are  unworthy  to  fill.  I have  been  offered  still  greater 
honors,  the  office  of  bishop  and  tbe  dignity  of  a spiritual  peerage,  as 
you  all  know;  nor  was  it  till  now  my  intention  to  decline  this  pro- 
motion. I have  been  much  before  the  public  in  other  ways,  which 
it  were  unbecoming  to  mention  in  this  holy  place.  Such  dignities 
as  have  been  mine,  my  brothers — for  I may  still,  in  spite  of  my  sins, 
call  you  brothers,  since  I am  still  God’s  child,  and  only  desire  to 
return  to  Him  by  the  way  of  penitence — such  dignities  are  based 
upon  the  assumption  not  only  of  moral  rectitude,  hut  of  decided 
Xiiety,  and  neither  of  these  has  ever  Ijeen  mine.  My  beloved  brothers, 
hear  me,  and  take  warning,  and  oh!  pity  me,  for  I am  the  most 
miserable  of  men.  Like  those  against  whom  Christ  pronounced 
such  bitter  woes,  I have  desired  to  wear  long  robes,  to  receive  greet- 
ings in  the  market-place,  to  occupy  the  chief  seats  in  synagogues; 
these  things  have  been  the  very  breath  of  my  nostrils,  and  for  these 
I have  sinned  heavily,  heavily.  The  favor  of  men  has  been  dear  to 
me,  therefore  I offer  myself  to  their  scorn.  To  no  man,  I think, 
has  man’s  favor  been  dearer  than  to  me.  Ah,  ftiy  brothers, 
there  is  no  more  bitter  poison  to  the  soul  than  the  sweetness  1 


342 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


loved  with  such  idolatry  I Well  does  our  Saviour  warn  us  against 
it!” 

He  spoke  all  this  with  quiet  anguish,  straight  from  his  heart,  his 
manuscript  being  closed ; while  at  this  point  tears  came  and  dimmed 
the  blue  luster  of  his  large  deep  eyes,  and  coursed  quietly  and  un- 
heeded down  his  cheeks.  The  congregation  still  listened  with  wide- 
eyed  wonder,  not  knowing  how  to  take  these  extraordinary  utter- 
ances, and  half  suspecting  that  they  were  the  victims  of  some  stage 
effect.  But  the  premier’s  face  wore  a startled  gaze,  and  he  looked 
round  uneasily.  The  idea  suddenly  entered  his  head  that  his  recent 
elevation  and  the  strenuously  toilsome  life  he  led  had  been  too  much 
for  the  dean,  and  driven  him  mad.  Nor  was  he  alone  in  his  belief, 
which  was  shared  by  the  dean’s  doctor  among  others. 

The  bishop  was  terribly  moved,  and  half  doubtful  whether  it 
would  not  be  well  to  persuade  the  preacher  to  leave  the  pulpit  as 
quietly  as  possible;  he,  too,  thought  the  dean  mad,  and  trembled 
lest  the  gossip  his  own  son  had  repeated  might  have  driven  his  sensi- 
tive organization  off  its  balance.  Tears  sprang  to  his  eyes,  and  he 
loathed  himself  for  the  petty  feelings  he  had  suffered  to  enter  his 
heart  that  very  day. 

“ What  I confess  now,  in  the  presence  of  God  and  of  this  con- 
gregation, against  whom  I have  sinned,”  continued  the  preacher, 
“ I shall  confess  shortly  before  the  civil  tribunals  of  this  land,  the 
laws  of  which  I have  broken.  Nineteen  years  ago,  when  in  dea- 
con’s orders,  I led  an  innocent  young  woman  astray.”  Here  his 
voice  broke  with  a heavy  sob.  I was  the  tempter — I,  who  fell 
because  I deemed  myself  above  temptation.  My  brothers,  since 
then  I have  not  had  one  happy  hour.  Mark  that,  you  who  per- 
chance stand  on  the  verge  of  transgression.  But  that  is  not  all. 
With  a heart  still  stained  with  that  iniquity,  which  I vainly  tried  to 
expiate  by  bodily  penance,  I took  upon  me,  in  this  very  cathedral, 
the  awful  responsibilities  of  the  priesthood,  and  fell  into  new  tempta- 
tion. 

The  father  of  this  poor  girl  discovered  my  iniquity,  and,  justly 
angered^  fell  upon  me  with  violence.  In  the  struggle,  I know  not 
how,  I killed  him.  Yes,  my  brothers,  look  upon  me  with  the  hon- 
est scorn  you  must  feel  when  you  hear  that  these  hands,  which 
have  broken  the  bread  of  life  and  sprinkled  the  waters  of  healing, 
are  red  with  the  blood  of  the  man  I wronged.  But  even  that  is  not 
the  full  measure  of  my  iniquity.  I had  a friend  : I loved  him — I 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


343 


loved  him,  I tell  you,”  he  echoed  passionately,  “ more  than  any  mor- 
tal man.  He  was  a man  of  noble  character  and  spotless  life ; he 
had  gifts  which  gave  promise  of  a glorious  and  beneficent  career. 
Suspicion  fell  upon  him  through  my  fault,  but  not  my  deliberate 
fault.  He  was  tried  for  my  crime,  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to 
twenty  years’  penal  servitude.” 

Here  the  preacher  trembled  exceedingly,  and  was  obliged  to 
pause,  while  people  looked  from  one  to  another  with  horror-stricken 
eyes  and  blanched  faces,  and  the  very  air  seemed  to  palpitate  with 
their  agitation.  “ Two  days  ago,”  continued  the  unhappy  man, 
“ he  came,  fresh  from  the  prison,  to  worship  in  this  holy  place.  I 
was  preaching — I,  the  traitor,  the  hypocrite;  I who  had  lived  in 
palaces  while  the  friend  of  my  youth  pined  in  the  prison  I had  de- 
served— I saw  him ; I recognized  him  through  all  the  terrible 
changes  that  awful  misery  had  wrought  upon  him.  I could  not  bear 
the  sight,  and  fied  from  it  like  another  Cain.  But  I did  not  even 
then  repent. 

“ My  brothers,  this  man  wrote  to  me  and  forgave  me,  and  that 
broke  my  stony  heart.  The  Almighty  had  called  me  by  heavy  sor- 
rows through  many  years  to  repentance,  but  I repented  not  until  I 
was  forgiven.  The  All-Merciful  did  not  leave  me  alone  in  my 
wickedness.  I saw  the  wife  of  my  youth  pine  away  before  my 
eyes,  and  my  children  fade  one  by  one  till  my  home  became  a deso- 
lation, and  yet  I sinned  on,  deadening  my  conscience  by  continual 
opiates  of  subtlest  sophistry.  It  is  not  for  me  to  detail  these ; to 
say  how  I persuaded  myself  that  my  gifts  were  needed  in  the  minis- 
try of  the  Church ; that  I was  bound  to  sacrifice  all,  even  con- 
science, to  the  sacred  calling,  and  such  like.  Blind  was  I,  blind 
with  pride  and  self-love.  Kay,  I refused  even  to  look  my  sin  in  the 
face.  I stifled  memory ; I never  realized  what  I had  done  until 
the  awful  moment  of  revelation,  when  I stood  eye  to  eye  with  the 
friend  I betrayed.  My  dear  brothers,  have  you  ever  thought  what 
years  of  penal  servitude  must  mean  to  a gentleman,  a man  of 
refined  feelings,  of  intellectual  tastes,  of  unusual  culture?  To  be 
herded  with  the  vicious,  the  depraved,  the  brutal,  the  defective  or 
degraded  organizations  which  swell  the  mass  of  crime  in  our  lan(^; 
to  be  cut  off  from  all  other  human  intercourse,  all  converse  with 
the  world  of  intellect  and  culture ; to  pass  weary,  weary  years  in 
fruitless  manual  toil  and  pining  captivity;  to  wear  the  garb  of 
shame  ; to  be  subject  to  rough  and  uneducated  and  not  always  kind' 


344 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


ly  gaolers  ” — here  something  choked  his  utterance  for  awhile — • 
“ to  know  no  earthly  hope ; to  see  the  long  vista  of  twenty  years’ 
monotonous  misery  stretching  remorselessly  ahead,  and  all  this  in 
the  flower  of  youth  and  the  hlossom-time  of  life  ? From  six  and 
twenty  to  six  and  forty  I Can  you  grasp  what  that  muans  ? This, 
and  more  than  this,  I inflicted  on  the  friend  who  loved  and  trusted 
me ; and  of  this  I declare  before  God  and  man  I repent,  and  desire 
as  far  as  possible  to  amend. 

“ In  a few  days  I shall  be  in  a felon’s  cell.  I shall  be  happier 
there  than  I have  ever  been  in  the  brightest  moments  of  my  pros- 
perity. My  brothers,  I still  bear  a divine  commission  to  warn  and 
teach  ; I beseech  you  to  heed  my  story  and  take  warning.  Let  me 
be  to  you  as  the  sunken  vessel  which  marks  the  treacherous  reef 
beneath  the  wave!  Listen  and  heed  well  what  I say,  as  it  were, 
with  dying  breath,  for  I shall  be  civilly  dead,  virtually  dead,  in 
twelve  hours’  time.  I repent,  and  there  is  mercy  for  me  as  for  the 
vilest ; but  I can  never  undo  the  consequences  of  my  sins — never, 
though  I strove  through  all  the  endless  ages  of  eternity.  I can  not 
restore  honor  and  innocence  to  her  whom  I robbed  of  these  price- 
less jewels.  I can  not  give  back  his  life  to  him  whose  blood  I shed. 
I can  not  recall  the  years  of  youth,  and  hope,  and  health,  and  power 
of  wide  usefulness  which  were  blasted  in  the  prison  of  my  friend. 
It  were  rash  to  say  that  the  Almighty  can  not  do  these  things ; it 
is  certain  He  can  not  without  disordering  the  whole  scheme  of  hu- 
man life,  certain  that  He  will  not.  How  far  the  human  will  can 
frustrate  the  divine  purposes  has  never  been  revealed  to  mortal 
man — is  probably  unknown  to  the  wisdom  of  seraphs ; but  this  wo 
know,  that  nothing  can  happen  without  divine  permission.  It  may 
be  that  man’s  will  is  absolutely  free  with  regard  to  thought,  and 
only  limited  with  regard  to  action,  to  its  efiects  upon  others.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  God  can  bring  good  out  of  evil,  and  that  those  who 
trust  in  Him,  however  oppressed  and  afflicted  by  the  wickedness  of 
their  fellow-men,  will  nevertheless  be  delivered  in  all  their  afflic- 
tions, and  that  to  them  ‘ all  things  work  for  good.’  These  are  my 
last  words,  dear  brothers.  Ponder  them,  I beseech  you,  as  men 
ppnder  dying  words,  even  of  the  vilest.” 

The  dean  ceased,  and,  turning,  as  usual,  to  the  east,  repeated 
the  ascription  with  humble  reverence.  He  then  turned  once  more 
to  the  congregation,  and  seated  himself,  with  a sigh  of  exhaustion ; 
while  the  bishop,  whose  eyes  w'ere  full  of  tears,  stood  with  uplifted 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


345 


liand  and  pronounced  thC  benediction,  in  a moved  and  awe-stricken 
voice,  upon  the  agitated,  half- terrified  multitude,  and  upon  the  un- 
heeding ears  of  the  dean. 

As  this  strange  discourse  proceeded,  the  excitement  of  the  con- 
gregation had  waxed  higher  and  higher,  and  spread  itself  by  the 
irresistible  contagion  of  sympathy  which  exists  in  a vast  assembly. 
The  prevalent  idea  was  that  the  dean  was  mad.  Many  people 
present  had  heard  the  story  of  his  youth,  and  knew  how  bitter  had 
been  his  sorrow  for  his  friend’s  disgrace,  and  it  was  not  unnatural 
to  suppose  that  long  brooding  upon  this  early  grief  had,  in  a mo- 
ment of  mental  aberration,  worked  itself  into  the  hallucination 
that  he  was  himself  the  doer  of  the  crime  which  had  wrought  such 
sorrow. 

In  spite  of  the  rumors  circulated  so  swiftly  within  the  last  few 
days,  there  were  few  who  believed  the  dean’s  accusations  against 
himself.  All  were,  however,  immensely  relieved  when  the  painful 
scene  was  ended.  Women  had  become  hysterical,  and  some  had 
fainted  and  been  carried  out ; the  choristers  were  mostly  pale  with 
affright ; the  clergy  were  dismayed,  and  whispered  together  about 
the  expediency  of  putting  an  end  to  this  painful  exhibition.  Among 
the  few  who  took  the  sermon  seriously  was  the  clergyman  who  had 
heard  the  death-bed  statement  of  Alma  Judkins.  This  man  heard, 
and  trembled  and  wept. 

The  prayer  after  the  blessing  was  ended,  the  congregation  rose 
from  their  knees,  the  organ  broke  forth  in  melodious  thunders,  and 
the  choir  began  their  slow  and  orderly  procession  as  usual.  But 
the  dean  did  not  descend  from  the  pulpit  and  take  his  usual  place  in 
the  rear  of  the  clergy,  and  the  bishop,  thinking  he  must  be  ill,  di- 
rected a verger  to  go  and  offer  him  help.  The  man,  excited  and 
overstrained  as  he  was  by  the  strong  feelings  stirred  up  by  that 
strange  discourse,  ascended  the  stairs  and  spoke  softly  to  the  dean, 
who  had  not  moved  from  his  marble  composure.  There  was  no  an- 
swer. 

A cry  burst  from  the  man’s  lips,  and  rang  above  the  rolling  organ 
harmonies  to  the  very  ends  of  the  long  aisles.  A scene  of  extraor- 
dinary confusion  ensued.  Tlie  congregation,  unnerved  and  excited 
as  they  were,  ran  tumultuously  hither  and  thither;  the  choir  broke 
from  their  ranks,  and  clustered  about  the  pulpit  steps  like  a flock  of 
fluttered  doves;  the  music  stopped  abruptly,  with  a harsh  discord, 
for  the  pupil  who  w'as  working  the  stops,  looking  down  to  discover 


M6 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


the  cause  of  the  strange  tumult,  cried,  “ Tli6  dean  is  dead,”  and  the 
organist  sprang  from  his  seat  with  a cry  of  sorrow. 

They  lowered  the  lifeless  form  from  the  pulpit,  and  laid  it  upon 
the  altar  steps.  Some  surgeons — the  dean’s  own  doctor  among 
them — sprang  through  the  crowd,  and  pronounced  the  dean  to  be 
beyond  all  human  aid ; and  following  them  came  a tall  youth,  dark 
eyed,  and  dressed  in  black. 

“Not  dead!  not  dead!  Oh,  my  father!”  he  sobbed;  “and  I 
helped  to  break  his  heart!  ” Oh,  my  father!  ” 

Him  they  hurried  away  unobserved,  and  the  bishop’s  clarion 
voice,  a voice  now  without  a rival,  rang  through  the  confused  tu- 
mult, full  of  indignation  and  sharp  rebuke.  He  bid  the  people  return 
to  their  places,  and  consider  the  sanctity  of  the  spot;  and,  when  he 
was  silently  obeyed,  he  told  them  that  the  dean’s  soul  had  fled,  and 
asked  them  to  kneel  and  repeat  the  Commendatory  Prayer,  while 
the  body  was  borne  from  the  spot.  He  made  a sign  to  the  organist, 
who,  blinded  with  tears,  resumed  his  seat,  and  .thundered  out  the 
heart-shaking  anguish  of  the  “Funeral  March,”  while  at  the  same 
moment  the  heavy  sound  of  the  deep-toned  knell  boomed  slowly 
over  the  startled  sunshiny  city. 

For  a brief  moment  the  bishop  knelt  silently  by  the  lifeless  form, 
which  lay  like  a sacrifice  upon  the  altar  step,  and,  making  the  holy 
sign,  he  closed  the  beautiful  eyes  that  would  never  more  flash  their 
electric  radiance  of  passion  and  intellect  upon  the  listening  multi- 
tude; he  folded  the  lifeless  hands  upon  the  heart  which  had  just 
broken  in  the  stress  of  its  awful  anguish ; and,  taking  a fold  of  the 
surplice,  he  laid  it  over  the  marble  face,  and  the  eloquent  lips  which 
would  never  more  charm  with  their  golden  music.  Just  as  Cyril 
shielded  the  unsuspected  passions  which  convulsed  his  face  from  the 
public  gaze  after  his  son’s  baptisna,  the  bishop  shielded  the  passion- 
less quiet  of  his  features  now. 

Then  the  choir  paced  out  in  their  usual  order,  save  that  the  dean 
was  borne  by  some  of  the  choristers,  all  of  whom  loved  him,  and 
were  eager  to  render  him  this  last  service ; and  thus,  to  the  wailing 
music  and  heavy  thunders  of  the  great  dirge,  and  the  deep  booming 
of  the  cathedral  knell,  amid  the  unwonted  tears  of  his  brother 
priests,  and  of  nearly  all  who  bore  office  in  the  cathedral,  from  the 
organist,  whose  tears  dropped  on  the  keys  as  he  played,  and  asked, 
“When  shall  we  see  such  another?  ” to  the  man  who  rang  the  knell 
—Cyril  Maitland  was  carried  out  into  the  same  warm  afternoon 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


347 


sunshine  that  was  gilding  the  Malbourne  belfry,  and  shining  on  the 
honest  faces  of  those  who  were  bidding  Everard  welcome  after  his 
long  exile,  and  offering  him  the  simple  homage  of  their  belief  in  his 
innocence. 

“ How  are  the  mighty  fallen ! the  beauty  of  Israel  is  slain  upon 
the  high  places!”  mourned  the  bishop,  silently,  in  the  words  of 
David  over  his  fallen  foe  and  friend — words  which  echoed  through 
the  hearts  of  the  other  clergy,  as  they  escorted  their  dean  for  the 
last  time  from  the  sanctuary. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Still  unconscious  of  the  tragedy  that  was  being  enacted  to  its 
close  in  Belminster  Cathedral  that  sunny  summer  aftenoon,  the 
little  family  circle  at  Malbourne  finished  the  quiet  and  holy  day  as 
they  had  begun  it,  and,  retiring  early  to  rest,  slept  such  calm  and 
refreshing  slumbers  as  visit  tlie  gentle  and  the  good. 

Lilian’s  last  thought  on  sleeping  and  first  on  waking  was  for 
Cyril,  and  how  she  might  help  to  heal  his  sorely  stricken  soul,  while 
the  dreadful  certainty  which  had  followed  on  her  long  suspense  and 
doubt  on  the  subject  of  his  guilt,  though  it  filled  her  with  deep  sor- 
row, yet  brought  the  calm  which  never  fails  to  accompany  certainty, 
however  terrible. 

She  was  very  quiet  at  breakfast  next  morning,  and  Mr.  Mait- 
land, observing  this,  attributed  it  to  the  reaction  Ibllowing  on  the 
excitement  of  the  last  few  days,  and  was  more  cheery  and  chatty 
than  usual  to  make  up  for  her  defection. 

Mark  Antony,  like  other  invalids,  was  always  very  shaky  of  a 
morning,  and  declined  this  day  to  rise  for  his  breakfast ; so  a saucer 
of  milk  was  placed  by  his  padded  basket  on  the  sunny  window-sill, 
but  remained  untouched. 

The  creature  looked  up  in  response  to  the  caressing  hand  and 
voice  of  his  mistress,  and  purred  faintly,  but  turned  away  his  head 
from  the  proffered  milk;  and,  after  coaxing  him,  and  offering  him 
everything  she  could  think  of,  Lilian  was  about  to  leave  her  pet  to 
rest  and  recover  strength  in  the  sunshine,  when  her  retreating  figure 


348 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


was  stayed  by  a faint  mew,  and,  turning,  she  saw  the  poor  little 
thing  staggering  from  its  bed  and  trying  to  follow  her. 

She  ran  back  in  time  to  catch  the  little  body  as  it  tottered  and 
fell,  and,  with  a loving  glance  and  one  soft  attempt  at  a purr,  lay 
limp  and  lifeless  in  her  hands. 

“ Oh,  Henry ! ” she  cried,  the  hot  tears  raining  from  her  eyes, 
“ my  pretty  Mark ! ” 

“I  could  have  better  spared  a better  cat!  ” said  Mr.  Maitland. 

“No  cat  ever  had  a pleasanter  life,  or  an  easier  death,”  said 
Everard,  stroking  the  inanimate  fur.  “1  will  bury  him  for  you, 
Lilian.  Let  us  choose  a pretty  spot  at  once.” 

And  they  went  into  the  garden,  Everard  procuring  a spade  and 
setting  to  work  with  a practised  ease  that  reminded  Lilian  of  his 
long  years  of  hard  labor,  on  the  flower-border  beneath  the  window, 
on  the  sill  of  which  the  deceased  had  spent  so  many  sunny  hours 
in  peaceful  meditation  upon  the  follies  of  mankind  and  the  wisdom 
of  the  feline  race. 

The  gVave  had  been  properly  dug,  and  Everard  laid  the  cat  in 
it,  and  having  covered  him  with  a verdant  shroud,  reminded  Lilian 
that  mourners  always  turned  from  the  grave  before  the  painful 
ceremony  of  shoveling  in  the  earth  was  performed  ; and  Lilian  was 
obeying  this  suggestion,  when  she  discovered  the  hitherto  unnoticed 
presence  of  a messenger,  who  handed  her  a telegram. 

She  took  it  without  suspicion,  and  delayed  opening  it  until  she 
had  spoken  a kindly  word  to  the  messenger,  and  directed  the  gar- 
dener to  take  him  to  the  kitchen  for  rest  and  refreshment. 

“ If  he  had  not  caused  me  such  bitter  pain,”  she  said,  turning 
to  Henry,  and  referring  to  the  cat,  while  she  broke  open  the  envel- 
ope, “I  should  not  have  loved  him  half  so  much.” 

“Dear  old  Mark!  We  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again.  He 
did  indeed  give  the  world  assurance  of  a cat.” 

He  was  not  looking  at  Lilian,  but  into  the  grave,  and  was  startled 
by  a low  cry  of  intense  agony,  and,  looking  up,  saw  her  stagger 
with  blanched  face  against  the  mullion  of  the  window,  where  the 
roses  bloomed  round  her  head. 

“ My  poor,  poor  boy ! ” she  cried  gaspingly. 

Everard  dropped  the  spade  and  came  to  her  assistance,  and  she 
gave  the  paper  with  the  terrible  tidings  into  his  hand. 

“ The  dean  died  yesterday  afternoon  in  the  cathedral,”  was  the 
brief,  stern  announcement. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


349 


“My  father,  oh,  my  father!  how  shall  we  shield  him?”  cr\ed 
Lilian,  recovering  her  feet,  but  trembling  all  over.  ‘‘1  always  open 
his  telegrams  to  spare  him.” 

Everard  said  nothing,  but  crushed  the  paper  fiercely  in  his 
pocket,  while  from  the  force  of  old  habit  he  took  his  spade  again 
and  completed  his  task,  no  longer  careful  to  spare  Lilian’s  feelings, 
but  stamping  the  earth  resolutely  down,  and  planting  the  displaced 
flowers  upon  it.  Then  he  threw  the  spade  aside  with  a deep  groan. 

“ If  he  could  but  have  spoken  to  me  once,  only  once ! ” he  said. 

“He  got  your  letter,  dear,”  said  Lilian,  in  her  usual  tones, 
though  her  white  lips  quivered,  and  she  still  shook  all  over;  “there 
is  comfort  in  that.” 

“Yes,  he  must  have  got  it.  He  could  not  have  been  too  ill  to 
read  it.  ‘ In  the  cathedral.’  Oh,  Lilian,  he  might  have  died  that 
night!  There'  was  probably  some  heart  disease.  Mhat  did  he 
think  of  his  seizures  ? ” 

“ Mere  nervous  excitement.  He  did  not  consider  himself  ill. 
He  had  advice.  Oh,  Henry,  my  father ! ” 

“It  will  be  a blow.” 

“It  will  kill  him!  He  is  feebler  than  you  think.  How  can  he 
bear  this?  ” 

“Dearest,”  said  Everard,  with  infinite  tenderness,  “it  is  but 
death,  remember.  He  might  have  heard  worse  tidings.” 

“ My  poor  Cyril ! — yes.  If  we  could  only  bear  the  consequences 
of  our  misdeeds  alone,  each  in  his  own  person,  how  much  less  sor- 
rowful life  would  be ! ” 

“,And  how  much  less  joyous,  Lilian!  Ah,  my  dear,  this  must 
be  faced,  and  we  must  take  what  comfort  we  can ! ” 

Then  they  took  counsel  together,  and  decided  upon  assuming 
that  the  dean  was  very  ill,  and  that  they  were  summoned  to  him 
at  once.  They  could  then  accustom  Mr.  Maitland’s  mind  gradually 
to  the  loss,  and  extinguish  hope  by  degrees  until  they  arrived  at 
Belminster,  when  it  would  no  longer  be  possible  to  cherish  any 
doubt. 

Everard  took  upon  himself  the  piteous  task  of  breaking  the 
news,  while  Lilian  made  hurried  preparations  for  their  departure. 
He  went  with  a beating  heart  to  the  study  door,  and  knocked,  and 
then  it  came  like  lightning  across  him  that  he  had  so  gone  to  that 
room  eighteen  years  ago,  to  receive,  and  not  to  give,  ill  tidings. 

Mhen  the  gentle  priest  lifted  his  white  head  with  a pleasant 


350 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


smile  from  the  book  over  which  he  was  bending,  he  could  not  but 
think  of  the  awful  look  with  which  he  had  greeted  him  on  his  last 
entrance,  nor  could  he  quite  forget  the  bitter  injustice  done  to  him 
then  for  Cyril’s  sake.  It  seemed  a terrible  retribution  for  the  guile- 
less man,  whose  only  fault  was  too  great  a pride  in  his  gifted  son. 
Everard  felt  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  He  could  not  speak,  but 
sat  down  and  burst  into  tears,  the  only  tears  shed  for  Cyril  in  his 
home.  The  fact  that  he,  and  no  other,  had  to  deal  the  aged  father 
this  cruel  blow,  on  the  very  spot  where  so  cruel  a blow  had  been 
dealt  him  through  that  dead  man’s  fault,  seemed  an  awful  coin- 
cidence. 

Mr.  Maitland’s  face  changed ; he  was  in  a mood  to  anticipate 
calamity,  but  he  took  it  very  gently. 

“Is  it  Lilian?  ” he  asked,  in  a faint  voice. 

Everard  shook  his  head. 

“Kot,  oh,  not  Cyril  faltered  the  old  man,  with  a piteous  ac- 
cent, which  showed  where  his  heart  was  most  vulnerable. 

“ He  is  ill,  sir,”  returned  Everard ; “ seriously  ill.” 

Then  he  told  him  of  the  arrangements  they  had  made  for  going 
at  once  to  Belminster,  and  offered  what  assistance  was  needed. 

Mr.  Maitland  said  nothing,  but  rose  to  do  as  he  was  bid,  with  a 
touching  acquiescence,  but  very  feeble  movements.  He  seemed  to 
age  ten  years  at  least  before  Everard’s  pitying  gaze,  and  was  ap- 
parently unequal  to  the  task  of  doing  anything  in  preparation  for 
his  absence  from  his  duties. 

They  drove  into  Oldport  just  in  time  to  catch  the  train,  and 
Everard  and  Lilian  trembled  for  the  poor  father  as  they  passed  the 
flaring  posters  which  announced  the  contents  of  the  daily  papers,  and 
read  in  great  capitals,  “ Sudden  Death  of  the  Dean  of  Belminster.” 

But  Mr.  Maitland  did  not  appear  to  see  them;  he  was  bewildered 
and  preoccupied  in  his  manner,  and  asked  only  one  question,  “ Did 
Cyril  himself  send  for  him  ? ” and,  appearing  crushed  by  the  nega- 
tive answer,  made  no  further  observation  upon  passing  events.  He 
talked  much  in  a wandering  way  of  by-gone  days,  and  related  old  for- 
gotten events  of  Cyril’s  childhood,  surprising  Lilian  by  vivid  remi- 
niscences that  were  dim  or  quite  faded  in  her  memory,  and  laughing 
gently  from  time  to  time  at  the  child's  quaint  sayings  and  little  droll- 
eries of  long  ago. 

“They  were  twins,”  he  said,  addressing  Lilian,  as  if  she  were 
a stranger,  “ A boy  and  a girl — such  a pretty  pair,  and  so  good  and 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


351 


clever ! Exactly  alike,  and  so  fond  of  each  other— so  fond  of  each 
other!  Poor  dears!”  he  added,  shaking  his  white  head  sorrow- 
fully, “ drowned  before  their  father’s  eyes — before  his  very  eyes.” 

“ Oh,  Henry ! ” murmured  Lilian,  in  a choked  voice,  “ what  shall 
we  do?  He  wanders;  he  confuses  us  with  Cyril’s  twins.” 

“Do  not  excite  him;  it  is  only  temporary,”  Henry  whispered 
hack. 

“ Always  a good  son — a good  son ! ” continued  the  stricken 
father,  not  observing  their  comments;  “my  son,  the  Dean  of  Eel- 
minster.  Do  you  know,”  he  added,  with  a pleasant  smile,  “he  has 
been  offered  the  Bishopric  of  Warham?  ” 

“Yes,  dear  father,”  replied  Lilian,  soothingly ; “ but  he  is  very, 
very  ill.” 

“ 111?  ” he  returned,  with  a troubled  look : “ not  Cyril?  He  did 
everything  well.  A gifted  youth.  Little  Lilian  was  so  like  him.” 
“Dear  father,”  said  Lilian,  when  the  last  station  before  Belmin- 
rter  was  passed,  “ Cyril  can  never  recover.” 

“Is  that  true,  Henry?  ” he  asked,  turning  sharply  to  Everard. 
“It  is  too  true,  sir,”  he  replied  gently.  “Try  to  be  calm  ; we 
shall  be  at  Belminster  in  five  minutes.” 

The  old  man  looked  about  him  in  a hopeless,  bewildered  manner, 
and  tried  to  speak,  but  his  trembling  lips  refused  utterance.  Lilian 
caressed  him,  and  spoke  soothingly  to  him,  as  if  to  some  frightened 
child.  “ Cyril  is  gone  to  his  rest,  dear,”  she  said  at  last,  her  voice 
breaking  as  she  spoke. 

“ Is  he — dead  ? ” he  asked,  with  great  difficulty ; and  Lilian  re- 
plied in  the  affirmative,  and  he  smiled  a gentle  smile  that  went  to 
their  very  hearts,  and  said  nothing  more. 

They  drove  through  the  city  and  into  the  close,  in  the  sunny, 
slumbrous  noon,  past  the  red-brick  houses,  looking  blank  in  the 
sunshine,  with  their  white  blinds  darkening  the  windows ; beneath 
the  great  leafy  elms,  over  which  some  rooks  w^ere  sailing ; past  the 
hoary  fragment  of  cloister,  along  which  two  clergymen  were  pacing, 
and  talking  with  bated  breath  of  yesterday’s  tragedy ; beneath  the 
cool  shadow  of  the  great  gray  minster,  whose  vaulted  roof  and  long 
aisles  had  scarcely  ceased  to  thrill  with  the  passionate  anguish  of 
Cyril’s  breaking  heart,  and  round  whose  lofty  pinnacles  swallows 
were  sweeping  in  the  warm,  blue  air;  and  drew  up  before  the 
pointed  arches  of  the  silent  Deanery,  the  door  of  which  opened 
noiselessly  and  discovered  a weeping  figure  ready  to  receive  them. 


352 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


Before  they  could  respond  to  Miss  Mackenzie’s  greeting,  Everard 
was  obliged  to  call  Lilian’s  attention  to  her  father,  who  had  to  be 
lifted  from  the  carriage  and  taken  at  once  to  bed,  where  he  re- 
mained for  many  days  in  a lethargic  condition. 

There  would  be  no  inquest,  Miss  Mackenzie  informed  them,  the 
death  being  perfectly  natural  and  accounted  for  by  the  disease  from 
which  his  medical  adviser,  as  well  as  the  dean,  had  long  known  him 
to  be  suffering — a disease  which  might  still  have  permitted  him  years 
of  life  and  strength  under  favorable  conditions.  His  children  had  not 
been  sent  for,  as,  under  the  very  painful  circumstances,  Miss  Macken- 
zie could  not  undertake  the  responsibility  of  summoning  them. 

“ Painful  circumstances  ? ” asked  Lilian,  whose  marble-white 
features  showed  scarcely  more  life  than  those  of  the  brother  over 
whose  corpse  she  had  just  been  bending  in  tearlesss,  speechless  sor- 
row, whose  features  indeed  looked  more  like  those  of  the  dean  than 
ever. 

Miss  Mackenzie  having  turned  the  key  in  the  door  to  insure  un- 
interrupted privacy,  sat  down  in  the  darkened  chamber,  and,  saying 
that  Dr.  Everard  was  better  calculated  than  any  one  else  to  judge 
of  the  accuracy  of  what  she  was  about  to  relate,  told  them  that  it 
was  the  general  opinion  that  the  dean  had  been  visited  by  tempo- 
rary insanity  while  in  the  pulpit  the  day  before — an  opinion,  how- 
ever, which  was  not  shared  by  the  doctor.  Then,  beginning  with 
the  dean’s  unwonted  demeanor  on  the  Saturday,  and  the  abrupt 
manner  in  which  he  sent  his  children  away,  she  related  the  whole 
story  of  the  last  Sunday,  and  the  substance  of  the  extraordinary 
sermon  he  had  delivered  with  his  dying  breath. 

Lilian  listened  quietly  without  any  interrogation  whatever ; but, 
when  Miss  Mackenzie  came  to  the  dying  man’s  terrible  confession, 
her  marble  stillness  left  her,  and  she  burst  into  tears  and  wept 
silently  till  the  end  of  the  story,  murmuring,  under  her  breath, 
“Thank  God!  oh,  thank  God!  ” She  felt  that  her  brother  was  in 
some  measure  restored  to  her  by  his  penitence. 

The  dean’s  affairs  were  in  perfect  order;  he  had  made  every 
preparation  for  death.  The  bishop  was  co-executor  with  Lilian  of 
a will  he  had  made  some  time  previously,  by  which  he  left  half  his 
property  to  Henry  Everard,  and  the  other  half  to  his  two  children, 
under  the  trusteeship  of  Lilian,  till  they  should  be  of  age,  when  the 
boy,  in  consideration  of  his  infirmity,  was  to  receive  two-thirds  of 
the  children’s  moiety,  and  the  girl  one. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  353 

Certain  legacies  were  to  be  deducted  from  the  whole  amount  of 
his  property ; and,  by  a codicil,  added  on  the  day  before  his  death, 
there  was  to  be  a further  deduction  of  live  hundred  pounds,  which 
was  bequeathed  to  ‘‘Benjamin  Lee,  only  son  of  Alma  Judkins, 
widow,  formerly  of  Swaynestone,  and  lately  deceased  in  Belmin- 
ster.”  The  said  Benjamin  Lee  was  further  recommended  to  the 
interest  and  protection  of  “ my  beloved  twin  sister,  Lilian  Malt- 
land.” 

The  terms  of  this  testament  were  as  yet  unknown  to  any  one 
except  the  solicitor  and  the  bishop,  who  had  that  morning  ac- 
quainted himself  with  them.  He  had  made  this  early  inquisition 
into  the'' dean’s  temporal  affairs  in  consequence  of  finding  in  the 
study  a sealed  packet  addressed  to  himself,  as  executor,  “ In  case  of 
my  death  before  I have  time  to  lay  it  before  the  magistrates  my- 
self,” dated  on  the  day  before  his  death,  duly  signed  and  witnessed, 
and  containing  a full  and  detailed  account  of  the  death  of  Benjamin 
Lee,  “to  be  read  immediately  after  my  death,  that  justice  may  be 
done  as  soon  as  possible  to  those  I have  wronged.” 

The  bishop,  who  had  with  natural  reluctance  undertaken  the 
management  of  the  dean’s  affairs  only  upon  his  earnest  solicitation, 
and  under  the  consideration  that  in  the  course  of  nature  the  dean 
would  outlive  him,  now  wished  most  heartily  that  he  had  had  suf- 
ficient strength  of  mind  to  resist  his  importunity  on  the  subject. 
He  wished  it  doubly  when,  on  that  very  morning,  the  clergyman 
who  had  heard  Alma’s  confession,  and  taken  it  down  at  he^*  request 
in  writing,  to  which  she  affixed  her  signature,  confided  the  circum- 
stances to  him,  and  asked  his  advice  upon  the  subject. 

Both  the  bishop  and  Mr.  Strickland  had  separately  hesitated  to 
publish  the  dead  man’s  disgrace,  though  the  latter  had  been  solemn- 
ly charged  to  do  so  by  the  dying  Alma,  and  summoned  to  her 
death-bed  for  the  express  purpose  of  clearing  Everard.  The  bishop, 
even  after  reading  the  written  confession,  still  held  to  the  theory 
of  insanit}^ ; but,  after  the  coincidence  of  the  two  independent  con- 
fessions, there  was  no  longer  any  room  for  doubt,  and  he  felt  it  his 
duty  to  communicate  at  once  with  the  Everard  family,  and  take 
instant  steps  toward  clearing  Henry  Everard’s  character,  which  he 
did  accordingly.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Strickland  was  glad  to  share 
the  responsibility  with  him. 

But  of  this  Miss  Mackenzie,  of  course,  knew  nothing,  and  with- 
out had  enough  to  tell  her  auditors.  She  ended  by  putting  into 


354 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


Lilian’s  hands  a report  taken  in  shorthand  of  the  dean’s  last  sermon, 
which  Henry  and  Lilian  perused  together. 

Everard  passed  a long,  long  time  alone  in  the  presence  of  the 
dead.  When  he  entered  the  silent,  shadowed  chamber,  from  which 
the  summer  airs  were  excluded,  and  across  the  gloom  of  which  one 
or  two  long  golden  rays  of  sunshine  strayed  through  unguarded 
chinks,  and  where  the  air  was  heavy  with  that  indescribable  some- 
thing that  we  dare  not  name,  and  laden  with  the  rich  perfume  of 
flowers,  he  stood  still,  with  a spasm  at  his  heart,  and  feared  to  raise 
the  handkerchief  from  the  veiled  face. 

And  when  at  last  he  found  courage  to  gaze  upon  the  beautiful 
and  placid  features,  pale  with  the  awful  pallor  that  only  comes  when 
the  spirit  has  flown,  he,  who  had  looked  upon  death  in  the  course 
of  everyday  duty  so  often  and  under  so  many  painful  circumstances, 
realized  for  the  first  time  the  icy  horror  and  irreconcilable  enmity 
of  death.  A sharp  pain,  like  the  contraction  of  iron  wires,  clutched 
at  his  eyes,  which  filled  with  those  scalding  tears  that  do  not  fall 
or  give  relief,  and  only  spring  once  or  twice  in  life  from  the  very 
deepest  sources  in  our  nature ; and  for  a few  moments  he  would 
have  given  all  that  remained  to  him  of  life  for  one  friendly  glance 
of  the  beautiful  ever-darkened  eyes,  one  clasp  of  the  pale,  cold 
hands ; to  hear  those  mute  lips  open  once  more  with  the  cordial 
warmth  of  by-gone  days.  Old  Hal ! ” he  fancied  he  heard  him  say, 
as  on  the  fatal  day  when  last  they  met  as  friends. 

The  quiet  features  never  moved  from  their  marble  calm,  and  yet 
to  the  living  friend’s  fancy  the  lights  of  mirth,  of  intellect,  of  affec- 
tion, seemed  to  play  upon  them  as  in  their  by-gone  youth,  and  the 
sacred  flame  of  high  aspiration,  holy  and  pure  passion,  seemed  to 
fire  them.  Old  jests,  old  sayings,  things  grave  and  gay,  earnest  and 
light-hearted,  rushed  rapidly  back  upon  his  memory.  He  saw  Cyril 
a boy  again — a child  with  a seraphic  face,  and  a half-piteous  look  of 
frailty  and  dependence,  combined  with  intellectual  power;  he  saw 
him  a youth  full  of  high  hopes  and  warm  enthusiasms,  brilliant,  gen- 
erous, fascinating,  and  above  all,  pure. 

He  saw  him  in  his  young  manhood,  a being  so  saintly  that  his 
very  presence  seemed  to  banish  the  possibility  of  unholy  thought ; 
a lover,  the  purity  of  whose  ardent  love  seemed  almost  to  rebuke 
passion  ; a scholar,  a priest ; he  thought  of  his  many  gifts  and  at- 
tainments, and  all  the  beautiful  promise  of  his  early  manhood.  In 
such  a nature,  weaknesses  and  errors,  the  common  heritage  of  hu- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


355 


manity,  might  be  expected ; but  there  was  an  incredible  horror  in 
the  thought  that  this  man  was  stained  with  vice  and  crime.  Surely, 
Everard  thought,  as  he  had  thought  so  many  times  in  the  loneliness 
of  his  cell,  such  things  were  utterly  alien  to  this  pure  and  noble 
nature,  and  utterly  alien  and  incongruous  they  were.  Surely,  if 
there  were  a soul  fitted  to  resist  the  importunity  of  man’s  lower 
nature,  here  was  one ; and  here  indeed  was  one.  • 

Then  he  recalled  the  anguish  of  Cyril’s  words — almost  the  last  he 
ever  spoke  to  him — “ Henry,  I am  a man!  ” and  refiected  that  to  a 
human  being  there  is  no  moral  descent  impossible.  Yet  from  what 
a height  had  this  man  fallen ! And  what  a career  he  might  have 
had,  who  now  lay  dead  of  a broken  heart  before  him  ; and  what 
anguish  unspeakable  might  have  been  spared  to  others,  had  this 
gifted  and  noble  nature  had  the  courage  to  be  true  to  itself!  He 
thought  of  the  terrific  strength  of  those  master-passions,  ambi- 
tion, pride,  and  self-love,  in  that  otherwise  weak  soul,  and  shud- 
dered. 

They  had  thrown  a rich  Indian  cloth  over  the  library  table,  and 
upon  this  they  had  laid  the  dean,  robed  again  as  he  had  been  at  the 
moment  of  his  death.  The  still  room,  with  its  studious  gloom  and 
its  rows  of  learned  tomes  of  divinity,  was  decked  with  fiowers,  and 
wreaths  and  bouquets  covered  the  feet  of  the  dead,  and  lay  upon 
the  outer  folds  of  the  white  robe.  In  the  pale  hands  Lilian  had 
placed  some  blood-red  roses,  which  she  had  brought  from  MaL 
bourne,  plucked  from  two  trees  they  planted  on  their  twenty-first 
birthday — an  unacknowledged  instinct  made  her  shrink  from  the 
white  flowers  so  usual  in  the  death-chamber — and  these  and  the 
scarlet  doctor’s  hood  gave  a strange  luster  to  the  solemn  scene,  and 
strongly  emphasized  the  Parian  whiteness  of  the  face  and  hands. 
Those  who  saw  Cyril  die  had  seen  the  agony  pass  from  his  face, 
which  was,  as  it  were,  transfigured  at  the  close  of  his  sermon  by  a 
look  of  ineffable  serenity,  a look  that  never  left  it.  The  dead  face 
was  that  of  the  young  ideal  Cyril  of  Henry’s  youth,  the  man  his 
Maker  intended  him  to  be  ; the  man  he  ever  lived  afterward  in  his 
friend’s  thoughts.  Both  features  and  expression  now  had  the  strong 
likeness  to  Lilian’s  which  had  been  so  marked  in  their  childhood. 

The  door  of  the  silent  chamber  was  opened  more  than  once  that 
afternoon,  and  softly  closed  again,  unnoticed  by  Henry ; and  those 
who  thus  forbore  to  intrude  on  his  grief  never  forgot  the  scene— 
the  dead  man  lying  in  his  awful  quiet  like  some  sculptured  eflfigy 


356 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


on  a tomb,  but  not  more  statuesque  tlian  tbe  living  friend  seated  in 
the  chair  by  his  side,  facing  bim,  with  bis  gray  bead  supported  on 
his  hand,  and  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  unseeing  face. 

Pleasant  summer  sounds  of  bird  and  insect,  and  even  tbe  far-off 
laughter  of  children,  fell  deadened  upon  the  hushed  silence  of  that 
darkened  room ; the  silvery  cadences  of  the  cathedral  chimes  en- 
tered it  from  time  to  time,  and  at  the  hour  of  even-song  the  distant 
thunder  of  organ-music  broke  solemnly  upon  its  calm. 

The  lines  of  straying  sunshine  stole  slowly  from  point  to  point; 
once  the  end  of  a broken  shaft  fell  upon  the  pale  hands  and  gilded 
the  edge  of  a paper  clasped  in  the  unconscious  fingers — Everard 
knew  that  it  was  his  own  letter  which  had  been  so  clasped  at  the 
moment  of  death,  and  which  those  who  found  it  in  the  nerveless 
hand,  on  seeing,  had  again  shut  in  the  stiffening  clasp — the  waver- 
ing shadows  of  leaves  and  boughs  played  in  varying  dance  over  the 
closed  blinds  of  the  casements;  hour  after  hour  went  by,  and  the 
living  man  seemed  to  change  into  the  semblance  of  the  still  form  he 
gazed  upon. 

Ee  thought  many,  many  thoughts,  such  as  no  words  can  express, 
and  experienced  feelings  such  as  no  speech  may  render — thoughts 
which  arise  only  when  the  intellect  is  quickened  by  the  stir  of  un- 
wonted feeling : thoughts  of  life  and  its  deep  meaning,  death  and  its 
dark  mystery;  of  the  strangeness  of  man’s  destiny;  of  the  purpose 
of  his  being;  of  the  limits  of  human  will,  and  of  the  eternal  conse- 
quences of  human  action;  of  the  glory  and  beauty  of  moral  recti- 
tude, and  the  nothingness  of  all  human  achievement  besides. 

Through  all  his  thoughts  there  ran  the  deep,  strong  undercur- 
rent of  unutterable  pity  for  the  man  who  lay  before  him,  slain  in 
his  prime  by  the  pain  of  his  own  misdoing,  and,  blended  with  that, 
there  was  also  a thankfulness  that  his  agony  was  stilled  at  last,  and 
his  soul  at  rest.  He  recognized  the  righteousness  of  the  feeling 
which  prompted  Cyril  to  his  tardy  confession,  and  knew  that  no 
life  save  that  imprisoned  and  degraded  one  from  which  he  had  but 
just  escaped  would  have  been  possible  to  him.  He  thought  of  the 
iron  strength  of  this  man’s  pride  and  self-love,  and  wondered  at  the 
mystery  of  human  iniquity. 

He  mused  on  his  own  passionate  and  life-long  devotion  to  the 
man  who  had  so  terribly  injured  him,  a devotion  that  neither  his 
weakness  nor  even  his  crime  could  destroy,  and  he  asked  himself 
what  it  was  in  Cyril  that  so  enchained  not  only  the  best  and  deex> 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


357 


est  affections  of  Ms  friends,  but  also  the  love  of  all  those  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  there  must  be  some  deep  and  enduring 
virtue  in  a man  who  \vins  such  love  and  devotion  \ it  appeared 
incredible  that  the  affections  of  honest  hearts  should  be  wasted  on 
what  is  utterly  worthless. 

He  reflected  how  he  could  best  serve  the  dead.  He  saw  that  he 
had  been  wrong  in  aiding  him  to  conceal  his  past — that  nothing  but 
truth  can  serve  any  human  being;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
might  fulfill  those  duties  he  had  left  undone,  and  carry  on  those  that 
death  had  interrupted.  He  thought  especially  of  Alma’s  neglected 
child. 

He  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  strong  feeling  we  have  in  the 
presence  of  the  dead,  that  the  spirit  is  hovering  about  its  forsaken 
shrine,  and  is  conscious  of  the  thoughts  we  cherish,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  dead  lips  smiled  approval  of  his  resolution.  He 
mused  upon  the  unfinished  letter  found  upon  Cyril’s  writing-table, 
and  dated  on  the  day  of  his  death — “ Dear  Henry,  your  noble  letter 
has  broken  my  heart,”  and  he  felt,  as  in  his  ardent  youth,  that  he 
Could  go  through  fire  and  water  for  this  man. 

He  thought  of  old  that  Cyril’s  character  contained  the  ewig 
weihliche  element  Goethe  prized.  He  was  wrong ; that  saving  in- 
gredient was  in  his  own  manlier  nature,  not  in  the  weak  Cyril’s. 

Through  all  his  long  reverie  he  did  not  stir  from  his  statue-like 
calm ; nothing  in  the  still  chamber  marred  the  quiet  which  is  the 
homage  Ve  pay  to  that  silent  terror,  death.  His  very  breath  seemed 
stilled  in  the  intensity  of  his  abstraction  ; he  did  not  see  the  shift- 
ing of  the  sunbeams,  the  gradual  drooping  of  the  flowers,  the  fall 
of  petal  after  petal,  nor  did  he  hear  the  recurrent  chime-music, 
though  years  afterward  these  things  recalled  the  solemn  thoughts  of 
that  long  vigil. 

The  air  was  cool  and  refreshing,  and  the  slanting  sunbeams  were 
dyeing  the  minster  towers  a clear  wine-like  crimson,  when  his  long 
reverie  was  broken  at  last  by  the  entrance  of  Cyril’s  orphan  chil- 
dren. 

Then  he  rose,  greeted  them  afiectionately,  and,  bidding  them 
look  on  him  as  their  father  now,  he  left  them  alone  with  their  dead* 


358 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


CHAPTEK  XL 

Eveeard  closed  the  door  softly  behind  him,  and  went  • into  the 
hall  with  a solemn  radiance  on  his  face,  and  was  about  to  ascend 
the  staircase  to  inquire  into  Mr.  Maitland’s  condition,  when  he  was 
met  by  a gentleman  with  a benign  and  intellectual  face  and  a digni- 
fied bearing. 

“ Dr.  Everard,”  he  said,  in  a rich,  deep  voice,  “ allow  me  the 
honor  of  shaking  hands  with  a man  whose  noble  conduct  has  per- 
haps saved  a human  soul.  I am  the  Bishop  of  Belminster,”  he 
added,  “ the  late  dean’s  executor  and  friend,  and  am  intrusted  by 
him  with  the  duty  of  clearing  your  character  from  the  imputations 
which  have  lain  so  long  upon  it.” 

And,  leading  him  into  the  study,  where  the  evidences  of  the 
dean’s  daily  occupations  and  the  empty  chair  by  the  table,  on  which 
lay  his  unfinished  tasks,  spoke  more  pathetically  of  his  death  than 
his  quiet  form  itself,  the  bishop  acquainted  him  briefiy  with  all  that 
the  reader  knows  already  concerning  the  will,  the  written  confession, 
and  Alma’s  death- bed  depositions.  Having  done  this,  he  led  him  to 
the  drawing-room,  which  was  flushed  through  its  closed  blinds  with 
the  glory  of  the  summer  sunset,  and  introduced  him  to  his  brothers, 
Keppel  and  George,  and  his  sister  Mrs.  Whiteford,  who  were  wait- 
ing to  receive  him,  Keppel  having  brought  the  children  from  Ports- 
mouth. 

They  greeted  him  with  cordial  aficction,  and  many  expressions 
of  regret  and  contrition  for  their  long  injustice;  and  Keppel  intro- 
duced him  to  Lady  Everard,  to  whom  he  had  been  married  after 
his  brother’s  disgrace. 

Henry  was  glad,  though  he  could  not  but  feel  the  meeting  ex- 
tremely painful,  especially  under  Cyril’s  roof.'  The  bishop  had  con- 
siderately withdrawn  on  presenting  him,  and,  after  the  first  confused 
expressions  of  welcome,  regret,  and  congratulation,  the  relatives 
scarcely  knew  what  to  say  to  each  other  until  Henry  at  last  ex- 
pressed a hope  that  all  knowledge  of  Cyril’s  share  in  Benjamin  Lee’s 
death  might  be  spared  his  children,  which  all  agreed,  if  possible,  to 
do. 

Admiral  Sir  Keppel  and  the  Kev.  George,  though  both  some  years 
older  than  Henry,  looked  younger;  neither  had  a gray  hair,  and 
both  were  fine,  handsome,  robust  men.  They  were  much  distressed 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


359 


at  the  marks  of  hardship  and  suffering  upon  him,  and  Mrs,  White- 
ford  wept  and  blamed  herself  greatly  for  allowing  her  husband  to 
dissuade  her  from  communicating  with  him  in  his  trouble. 

“ You  must  pay  us  a long  visit,  Hal,”  said  Keppel.  “We  have 
a nice  place  near  Hyde,  and  the  children  will  take  you  about  in  their 
boat,  and  make  you  young  again.” 

“ And  you  must  certainly  come  to  us,”  added  George ; “ my 
wife  told  me  to  bring  you  home  this  very  night.  Our  place  is  very 
healthily  situated  on  the  hill  yonder,  just  outside  Belminster.” 

“And  to  us,”  added  Mrs.  Whiteford.  “My  husband  wants  you 
to  go  for  a cruise  with  us.  That  will  recruit  your  health,  if  any- 
thing will.” 

“ Ah,  Henry,  T can  sympathize  with  you ! ” said  George,  with 
deep  solemnity.  “ I know  what  a prison  is  like.  I had  a twelve- 
month,  the  effects  of  which  I am  still  feeling,”  he  added,  with  a sigh 
of  intense  enjoyment. 

“ You  had  a twelvemonth?  ” inquired  Henry,  scanning  his  sol- 
emn clerical  brother  from  head  to  foot  with  astonishment. 

“You  may  well  look  surprised,”  said  Keppel,  “and  wonder 
what  parsons  have  to  do  with  the  inside  of  a gaol.” 

“ I have  experienced  the  honor  of  persecution,  Henry,”  ex- 
plained George,  with  deep  satisfaction.  “The  rigors  of  my  captiv- 
ity were  greatly  softened  by  the  sympathy  of  faithful  people.” 

“ Rigors  indeed ! ” growled  Keppel.  “ The  beggar  was  in  clover, 
and  almost  on  his  parole.  But,  as  I tell  George,  he  would  have  got 
double  the  time,  and  been  cashiered  into  the  bargain,  if  I had  been 
in  command.” 

“But,  my  dear  George,”  asked  Henry,  “what  were  you  perse- 
cuted for  ? and  how  could  you  be  imprisoned  ? I thought  the  fires 
of  Smithfield,  the  memory  of  which  you  used  to  be  so  fond  of  re- 
calling, were  extinguished  centuries  ago.” 

“You  are  mistaken,  Henry,”  returned  George,  in  his  gruffest 
bass.  “In  the  seclusion  of  your  dungeon  you  have  been  spared 
even  the  knowledge  of  the  awful  evils  we  in  the  world  have  been 
called  upon  to  face.  Never  was  the  enemy  of  mankind  more  active 
than  in  these  latter  evil  days.  The  Catholic  Church  is  beleaguered 
by  all  the  powers  of  darkness,  and  those  of  her  priests  who  dare  to 
be  faithful  are  hurled  into  dungeons.” 

“The  Catholic  Church?  Why,  I thought  you  were  one  of  the 
etrongest  pillars  of  Protestantism,  and  renounced  the  scarlet  woman 


360 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


and  all  her  works?  I am  glad  to  see  that  persecution  and  dun- 
geons have  not  permanently  damaged  you.” 

Keppel  remembered  the  solemn  tenant  of  the  near  chamber  in 
time  to  stifle  a burst  of  laughter,  while  George  looked  embarrassed, 
and  stammered  a good  deal. 

“Ah,  Henry!”  he  replied,  “you  are  thinking  of  twenty  years 
ago,  when  I was  in  the  depths ; I have  advanced  greatly  since  then.” 

“You  don’t  mean  to  say  you  are  a Ritualist  ?”  asked  Henry, 
eying  his  brother’s  sacerdotal  appearance  with  affectionate  amuse- 
ment. 

“ My  dear  Henry,”  said  Keppel,  interrupting  George’s  disclaimer 
of  this  term,  “ that  fellow  is  the  Ritualist,  the  ringleader  of  them  all. 
What  the  service  would  come  to  if  mutineers  were  let  down  as 
lightly  as  he  is.  Heaven  only  knows.  Persecution  indeed  1 ” 

Henry  smiled.  “ How  this  would  have  amused  Cyril ! ” he  said 
involuntarily.  “ Ko,  George ; I am  not  mocking,”  he  added,  in 
response  to  a pained  look  on  his  brother’s  face;  for,  as  he  learnt 
subsequently,  Cyril  had  been  wont  to  tease  his  reverend  brother  a 
good  deal  on  the  extreme  to  which  lie  had  veered  from  his  ultra- 
Protestant  opinions.  “ If  you  think  it  your  duty  to  differ  from 
your  bishop,  every  one  must  honor  you  for  going  to  prison  about 
it.  But  your  tenets  used  to  be  so  very  extreme  in  the  other  direc- 
tion. Tell  me  about  your  children.” 

Every  effort  was  made  to  keep  Cyril’s  funeral  as  private  as  pos- 
sible, but  in  vain.  Lilian,  who  was  co-executor  with  the  bishop, 
had  so  much  to  occupy  her  in  her  father’s  illness,  and  her  great 
anxiety  to  spare  Marion  and  Everard  the  slightest  suspicion  of  the 
tragedy  which  killed  their  father,  that  she  left  the  funeral  arrange- 
ments to  the  bishop,  only  stipulating  for  extreme  privacy.  By  some 
perverse  destiny,  the  bishop  misunderstood  her  wishes  and  those  of 
the  family,  which  were  that  Cyril’s  remains  should  be  taken  to  Mal- 
boiirne,  and  at  the  last  moment  it  was  discovered  that  all  was  ar- 
ranged for  an  interment  in  the  cathedral  burial-ground. 

Thither,  therefore,  the  dean’s  remains  were  borne  by  the  hands 
of  those  who  had  loved  him  and  volunteered  for  this  service,  and 
the  mourners,  on  following  their  dead  into  the  cathedral,  were  dis- 
mayed to  find  it  thronged  from  end  to  end  by  people,  who  wore 
mourning,  and  many  of  whom  bore  wreaths  for  the  dead.  They 
had  feared  a curious  crowd,  but  the  majority  of  this  crowd  were 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


361 


animated  by  something  better  than  curiosity.  Those  who  accept- 
ed the  dean’s  terrible  revelations  came  to  lionor  his  penitence,  and 
respect  his  fallen  estate ; many  clergy  came  in  the  spirit  which 
moved  his  brother  seer  to  do  honor  to  the  remains  of  the  disobe- 
dient prophet. 

But  the  public  at  large  utterly  refused  all  credence  to  his  guilt, 
not  only  at  the  time  of  the  funeral,  but  even  after  Alma’s  confes- 
sion had  been  made  public.  Not  a woman  in  Belminster,  and  not 
many  men,  held  the  golden-mouthed  preacher  and  large-hearted 
philanthropist  to  be  guilty.  The  question  was  largely  discussed  in 
the  press,  as  well  as  in  private  circles ; instances  of  similar  self- 
accusations of  half-forgotten  crimes  by  those  whose  minds  had  been 
consumed  by  long-brooding  grief  and  strained  by  overwork  were 
cited ; and  it  was  the  popular  opinion  that  the  dean  died  in  the  ex- 
citement of  a terrible  hallucination. 

Flags  were  floated  half-mast  high,  shops  were  shut,  and  knells 
were  tolled  in  the  city  churches  and  in  some  villages  on  the  day  of 
the  funeral.  Clergymen  came  from  rural  parishes  to  pay  the  last 
homage  to  their  great  brother;  the  Nonconformist  ministers,  with 
whom  he  had  always  maintained  such  pleasant  relations,  flocked  to 
the  grave  of  the  gifted  and  gracious  Churchman;  societies  and 
charitable  bodies  in  which  he  had  taken  interest  sent  deputations. 
Most  of  those  who  saw  him  die  were  there.  In  the  midst  of  ^his 
vast  concourse,  beneath  the  majestic  arches  of  the  lofty  cathedral, 
amid  the  dirge-like  thunders  of  the  organ  and  the  mournful  chant- 
ing of  the  full  choir,  there  was  a pathetic  simplicity  in  the  plain 
coffin,  followed  by  its  half-dozen  mourners,  foremost  among  whom 
showed  the  silvered  head  and  bowed  form  of  the  friend  so  deeply 
wronged  by  the  dead.  Cyril’s  weeping  daughter  was  on  Everard’s 
arm,  and  Lilian  led  his  blind  son  by  the  hand ; Ingram  Swayne- 
stone  and  George  and  Keppel  Everard  closed  the  list  of  kinsfolk. 
But  the  uninvited  mourners  were  innumerable,  and  the  tears  they 
shed  were  many,  and  not  the  least  imposing  part  of  the  grand  and 
solemn  Burial  Service  was  the  immense  volume  of  human  voicesj 
which  rose  like  the  sound  of  many  waters  upon  the  mournful  strains 
of  the  funeral  hymn. 

At  the  close  of  the  ceremony,  Henry’s  attention  was  attracted 
to  a young  man  who  had  pressed  gradually  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
grave,  into  which  he  cast  a wreath,  and  who  manifested  great  emo- 
tion, which  he  nevertheless  tried  hard  to  restrain.  There  was  some- 


362 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


thing  in  the  handsome  face  of  this  fine  young  fellow  which  sent  a 
quiver  through  Henry’s  heart,  and  startled  Lilian  painfully — a some- 
thing which  moved  Henry  to  accost  the  young  man  in  the  slight 
confusion  which  ensued  while  the  little  procession  was  re-forming. 

“ You  appear  to  be  moved,  sir,”  he  said,  in  a low'  voice  ; “ may 
I ask  if  you  were  an  intimate  friend  of  the  late  dean’s  ? ” 

The  youth  was  about  to  make  some  reply,  when  his  gaze  was 
arrested  by  the  sorrowful  glance  of  Marion,  who  was  upon  her 
uncle’s  arm.  He  stopped  as  if  in  deference  to  her,  and,  instead  of 
replying,  took  a card  from  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to  Everard,  who 
read  upon  it,  “ Benjamin  Lee.” 

“ That  will  explain  to  Dr.  Everard,”  he  said,  observing  the 
change  upon  Everard’s  face. 

Everard  bid  him  call  at  the  Deanery  at  a certain  hour,  and  they 
had  a long  interview  in  the  very  room  which  had  witnessed  Cyril’s 
anguish  upon  seeing  his  son. 

‘‘I  would  give  half  my  life  not  to  have  spoken  to  him  as  I did,” 
sobbed  the  young  fellow.  “ I don’t  want  to  be  a gentleman  now. 
Dr.  Everard ; that  is  all  knocked  out  of  me.  I see  what  ambition 
did  for  my  poor  father.  I heard  his  last  words ; I saw  him  die. 
I only  want  to  do  some  good  in  the  world  now.  1 am  all  alone. 
I buried  my  poor  mother  yesterday.  She  died  at  peace.  She  bid 
me,  if  ever  it  lay  in  my  power,  to  serve  you  and  yours,  remember 
how  much  she  injured  you,  and  try  to  atone  for  it.  It  cost  her 
something  to  tell  me  what  she  had  done  to  you.  But  she  thought 
I would  make  one  more  witness.” 

“You  shall  atone,”  Everard  replied.  “ Look  upon  me  as  a 
friend.  I,  in  my  turn,  will  try  to  do  for  you  what  he  would  have 
done  had  he  lived.  Who  knows,”  he  added  musingly,  “how  far 
we  may  be  permitted  to  make  up  for  each  other’s  shortcomings. 
If  the  one  great  vicarious  sacrifice  is  so  potent,  others  ought  surely 
to  fiow  from  it  and  share  its  potency.” 

He  sent  for  Lilian,  and  from  that  moment  Benjamin  Lee  was 
no  longer  alone  in  the  world.  She  consulted  with  Henry  upon  the 
young  man’s  capacities  and  acquirements,  and  finally  a situation 
was  found  for  him  in  an  office  in  Bel  minister,  Lee  having  a great 
desire  to  live  in  the  city  which  had  such  solemn  associations  for 
him.  He  also  became  subsequently,  to  his  great  joy,  one  of  the 
choir,  and  his  beautiful  voice  was  daily  lifted  in  praise  and  prayer 
beneath  the  solemn  arches  which  had  thrilled  to  his  father’s  peni- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


363 


tential  anguish.  Marion  and  Everard  Maitland  in  time  became 
deeply  attached  to  him,  little  dreaming  of  the  tie  that  existed  be- 
tween them  ; they  thought  of  him  only  as  a friend  and  protege  of 
their  uncle  Henry. 

The  depositions  of  the  dean,  and  those  taken  by  the  clergyman 
at  xilma’s  request,  having  been  forwarded  to  the  proper  quarters, 
and  corroborated  by  young  Lee’s  evidence  and  that  of  Everard  him- 
self, who  was  able,  on  his  examination,  to  give  a satisfactory  ac- 
count of  the  manner  in  which  he  spent  the  afternoon  of  Lee’s 
death,  it  became  evident  to  the  authorities  that  a terrible  miscar- 
riage of  justice  had  occurred.  How  to  repair  this  miscarriage  was 
a difficult  question,  and  one  which  exercised  the  mind  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  before  which  it  was  laid,  in  no  small  degree.  The 
ticket- of -leave  was  annulled,  and  Everard  was  declared  to  be  a free 
man.  The  property  he  forfeited  on  his  conviction  was  restored  to 
him  with  its  interest.  There  was  some  question  of  offering  him 
employment  under  Government,  which  was,  however,  not  carried 
out. 

As  soon  as  Everard  was  formally  set  free  from  the  bondage  of 
his  ticket- of-leave,  Lilian  and  he  were  quietly  married. 

The  drama  is  played  out.  The  i^ovember  afternoon  closes  in 
upon  the  same  wide  and  varied  landscape  that  Alma  Lee  saw  so 
many  years  ago  with  innocent  eyes  and  unawakened  heart,  all  un- 
conscions  of*  the  destiny  whose  black  shadow  was  even  then  darken- 
ing her  path  ; little  dreaming  of  the  temptation  about  to  assail  her, 
and  the  tragedy  in  which  one  sin  was  to  involve  so  many  lives. 

The  ancient  gray  tower,  dreaming  in  the  soft  afternoon  haze, 
gives  a mellow  voice  to  the  passage  of  time  with  its  solemn,  sweet 
chimes ; the  slender  grace  of  the  Victorian  daughter-tower  emu- 
lates its  hoary  majesty,  as  it  rises  above  the  smoke-canopy  of  the 
little  town  on  the  river ; the  tiny  bays  are  visible  on  the  wood-clad 
horizon ; the  flocks  spread  on  stubble  and  down  ; the  cornel  is 
purple  in  the  ivied  hedgerow  ; the  solemn,  half-conscious  silence 
of  the  chill  gray  afternoon  seems  laden  with  an  unspoken  mys- 
tery it  would  fain  reveal. 

“ — the  silence  grows 
To  that  degree,  you  half  believe 
It  must  get  rid  of  what  it  knows, 

Its  bosom  does  so  heave.” 


364 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


The  fairy  music  swells  as  of  old  upon  the  listening  air ; the 
merry  bell-peals  blend  and  clash  in  a sweet  dissonance,  changing 
into  harmony,  like  the  transient  wrangling  of  happy  lovers;  the 
heavy  rumble  and  creak  of  the  broad  wheels  and  stamp  of  the  iron 
hoofs  make  a rough  bass  burden  to  the  silver  treble  of  the  bells ; 
and  the  nodding  crests  of  the  gaily  caparisoned  wagon-horses  rise 
into  view  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  by  the  gate  over  which  Alma  Lee 
gazed  in  her  unawakened  youth,  and  thought  of  harmless  common- 
place things  in  which  nothing  tragic  had  any  part. 

The  sturdy  steeds  stop,  as  on  that  far-off  day,  with  a gradual 
dropping  of  the  blithe  bell-music ; the  great  wagon  is  brought  to 
with  a rumble  and  clatter,  and  cries  of  “ Whup  ” and  “Whoa;” 
the  drag  is  cast  under  the  massive  hind  wheel ; and  Will  Grove 
rests,  as  of  old,  against  the  strong  shaft,  and  gazes  over  the  gate  at 
the  still  dreamy  landscape,  and  recalls  the  day  when  Alma’s  beauti- 
ful young  face  and  graceful  form  were  outlined  against  such  a chill 
gray  sky  as  this. 

Will  is  stouter  than  on  that  day,  and  his  limbs  move  more  stiffly 
and  heavily,  and  there  are  gray  hairs  in  his  thick  beard.  He  wears 
no  flower  now  in  his  felt  hat,  which  has  lost  its  rakish  cock.  He 
apostrophizes  a sweet,  flower-like  face,  which  peeps  roguishly  over 
the  wagon  ledge  at  him,  with  a rough  but  kindly,  “ Bide  still,  ye 
bad  maide ; ” and  the  bad  maid  prattles  on  with  cries  of  “ Gran- 
fer,”  and  snatches  at  his  hat ; but  he  seems  not  to  heed  her,  as  he 
thinks  of  Alma  and  her  tragic  story,  which  will  be  related  for  years 
to  come  in  the  snug  bar  of  the  Sun,  and  by  many  a cottage  fireside 
round. 

“ She  were  a bad  ’un,  she  were ! ” he  muses;  and  some  vague 
notions  of  witchcraft  and  half-formed  shadowy  ideas  of  love-phil- 
ters steal  down  through  many  generations  to  his  uncultured  brain, 
to  account  for  Cyril  Maitland’s  strange  infatuation. 

And  Alma  hides  her  broken  heart  in  her  lonely  far-off  grave, 
just  when  she  should  be  living  in  an  honored  prime ; and  Cyril’s 
crushed  spirit  has  rest  in  his  grave,  within  sound  of  the  same  cathe- 
dral chimes.  And  how  many  gracious  gifts  and  joyous  possibilities 
and  noble  opportunities  are  buried  with  these  two  tardily  penitent 
sinners ! Some  vague  feeling  of  the  pity  of  it  all  stirs  Will  Grove’s 
heavily  moving  emotions,  as  he  cracks  his  whip  and  strides  on- 
ward, waking  the  fairy  music  of  the  bells  in  its  blithe  and  changing 
cadences. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


365 


There  are  the  Swaynestone  woods ; but  the  house  presents  a 
blank  face,  with  its  shuttered  windows  and  closed  doors,  and  no 
smoke  rises  from  the  chimneys,  and  no  sound  is  heard  about  its 
courts.  The  Swaynestones  are  gone  abroad  for  a year  or  two,  to 
live  down  the  memory  of  the  dean’s  disgrace.  And  here  is  Mai' 
bourne ; but  the  old  faces  are  seen  no  more  in  the  Rectory.  A 
stranger  preaches  from  the  village  pulpit,  and  strangers  walk  in  the 
pleasant  garden,  and  know  nothing  of  the  sweet  and  tender,  if  sad, 
associations  which  hallow  every  tree  and  flower.  Will  Grove  and 
his  team  go  on  their  musical  way,  till  the  clashing  cadences  fade 
and  die  in  the  distance,  and  the  last  gleam  of  brass-mounted  trap- 
pings is  swallowed  in  the  evening  shadows. 

Let  us  flit  on  the  airy  wing  of  Fancy  southward,  over  the  dim 
downs  and  the  gray  murmuring  sea;  over  the  orchards  and  farms 
of  Normandy;  across  the  broad  poplar-lined  plains  of  France, 
breathing  warmer,  clearer  air  with  every  breath  ; over  the  airy  sum- 
mits of  the  Yosges;  over  sunny  C6te  d’Or,  where  the  vineyards 
have  just  yielded  up  their  latest  spoil,  and  lie  brown  and  bare  in 
their  winter  sleep ; over  the  green  and  pine-clad  slopes  of  the  Jura, 
warm  now  in  the  sun’s  western  glow  ; over  blue  lake  and  icy  Alp, 
till  we  rest  on  the  northern  shore  of  sweet  Lake  Leman,  and  see  the 
solid  stone  towers  of  Chillon  reflected  in  the  clear,  jewel-like  waters. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AFTERGLOW. 

Not  far  from  Lake  Leman’s  shore  at  Montreux,  a pretty  chalet, 
girdled  round  with  the  two-storied  veranda  so  usual  to  Swiss 
houses,  stands  on  a terrace  among  fruit-trees ; and  upon  that  terrace, 
in  the  warm,  still  air  of  the  clear  November  sunset,  stood  Lilian, 
and  gazed  across  the  calm  blue  lake  at  the  Savoyard  Alps,  which 
were  already  streaked  and  veined  with  snow,  and  admired  the 
roseate  glow  which  lighted  the  seven-peaked  summit  of  the  Dent  du 
Midi  as  with  celestial  fire,  thinking  over  the  same  tragic  tale  which 
was  passing  through  the  memory  of  the  Malbourne  wagoner  to  the 
accompaniment  of  his  blithe  bell-music. 


366 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND, 


The  ethereal  Alpine  glow  suggested  beautiful  far-off  thoughts  to 
Lilian — thoughts  of  paradise  and  the  rest  of  the  departed,  of  the  par- 
don and  sweet  peace  of  the  penitent.  Cyril  seemed  near,  very  near, 
to  his  twin  sister  at  such  quiet  moments,  nearer  than  he  had 
ever  been  since  the  sin  which  put  apart  their  lives,  so  mysteriously 
entwined  by  nature.  The  tragic  scene  in  the  cathedra]  had  restored 
him  to  her  as  in  his  stainless  youth;  not  that  she  regarded  the 
anguish  which  killed  him  as  any  expiation  or  felt  his  death  to  be 
anything  but  a mercy ; he  was  restored  because  his  falseness  was 
gone  and  he  was  penitent ; and  she  felt  that  their  spirits  now  held 
mystic  communion  sweeter  and  purer  than  that  of  their  guileless 
childhood,  and  rejoiced. 

She  was  leaning  upon  a wheeled  chair,  as  she  gazed  upon  the 
exquisite  scene  before  her,  and  breathed  the  soft  breath  of  the  part- 
ing day.  In  the  chair  sat  her  white-haired  father,  with  a happy 
smile  on  his  beautiful  placid  face. 

“You  must  go  in  now,  dear,”  she  said,  in  the  soothing  tones  we 
use  toward  little  children ; “ the  sun  is  gone.”  And  she  pushed  the 
chair  along  the  terrace  to  an  open  French  window,  and  led  the  old 
man,  who  was  very  feeble,  under  the  veranda  into  a bright  salon^ 
where  a wood  fire  had  just  been  kindled  on  the  hearth ; and,  plac- 
ing him  comfortably  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  leaping  blaze,  left 
him  with  a tender  caress  to  dream  and  doze  in  the  gathering  twi- 
light. 

She  paused  in  the  garden  to  pluck  a sweet  late  rose  and  fasten  it 
in  the  black  dress  she  wore  for  Cyril,  and  then  passed,  with  a light, 
swift  step,  through  the  gateway  into  the  dusty  high-road,  and  set 
her  face  toward  the  Jura,  which  lay  dark  against  the  incandescent 
sky  of  sunset. 

She  had  not  gone  very  far  along  the  pleasant  road  toward  the 
warm  glory  of  the  departing  day,  when  her  sweet,  serene  face, 
clearly  illumined  as  it  was  by  the  afterglow,  suddenly  took  a new 
radiance,  and  was,  as  it  were,  transfigured  by  such  a look  as  no 
words  can  express ; such  a look  as  one  or  two  of  the  greatest  masters 
have  succeeded  in  painting  in  a Madonna  face ; such  a look  as  only 
Christian  art,  and  that  at  its  very  best,  can  portray.  The  source  of 
this  beautiful  expression  was  the  dark  figure  of  a man  standing  in  a 
wearied  attitude,  gazing  over  the  lake,  in  strong  relief  against  the 
western  brightness.  He  turned  at  the  sound  of  Lilian’s  light  step, 
and  met  her  face  with  a corresponding  radiance  in  his  brown  eyes, 


Z'HE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


367 


and  c?tme  toward  her  with  a momentary  elasticity  in  his  wearied 
limbs. 

“ I was  afraid  I had  missed  you,”  he  said,  suffering  her  to  take 
some  of  the  numerous  parcels  with  which  he  was  laden,  and  thus 
free  one  of  his  arms,  in  which  she  linked  her  hand  with  a loving 
pressure.  “It  took  so  long  to  do  all  the  commissions.  Yevey  was 
full ; the  whole  canton  was  shopping  there.  The  children  ? Oh, 
they  are  rowing  home.  Obermann  took  a boatman,  and  the  lake  is 
like  glass.” 

“ And  you  are  tired  with  the  walk,  Henry.” 

“ I was  till  I saw  you.  I can  not  get  over  this  weakness  yet, 
Lilian.  Of  course,  it  must  take  time.  But  I am  quite  resigned  to 
the  fact  that  I can  never  be  strong  again.” 

“ But  you  are  stronger.  Herr  Obermann  said  this  morning  that 
you  looked  ten  years  younger,”  said  Lilian,  with  a wistful  appeal  in 
her  voice. 

“ Infinitely  stronger,  dearest ; and  there  is  every  prospect  of  my 
living  to  a good  old  age  yet,  and  a happy  one.  Shah  I tell  you 
what  I w’as  thinking  when  I heard  your  step  ? I was  thinking, 
‘’Suppose  she  had  done  as  I wished,  as  ever^^  reasonable  creature 
wished;  suppose  she  had  ceased  to  think  of  me,  save  as  we  think 
of  the  dead,  and  given  her  heart  and  youth  to  one  w^ho  could  have 
made  her  happy — ’ ” 

“ But  you  know  that  was  impossible,  Henry,  when  I had  given 
my  heart  aud  my  life  to  you.” 

“ Ah,  Lilian,  it  is  not  every  honest  and  loyal  love  that  can  sur- 
vive such  a discipline,  and  waste  its  youth  and  hope  as  you  did 
yours  on  me ! But  suppose  it  had  been  so,  and  I had  not  succumbed 
to  despair  and  died  in  prison,  though  I do  not  think  I could  have 
lived  through  those  awful  years  without  you.” 

“ And  yet  you  talk  of  my  wasted  youth.” 

“ And  it  was  wasted  for  you,  darling.  But  suppose  it  had  been 
so,  and  I had  regained  my  freedom,  and  found  you,  as  you  must 
ever  have  been,  a kind,  true  friend,  but  the  happy  wife  of  another 
— of  Swaynestone,  for  instance,  as  he  told  me  you  should  have  been 
— with  your  heart  occupied  by  a mother’s  love  and  cares  ; — ah ! my 
dear,  how  could  I have  faced  life  alone  ? ” Henry  paused,  for  his 
heart  was  so  full  that  he  could  not  speak,  and  the  tears  were  in  his 
eyes,  and  also  in  Lilian’s,  which  were  raised  to  his,  speaking  the 
language  which  no  words  can  render.  “ What  you  have  been  to 
24 


368 


THE  SILENCE  OF  BEAN  MAITLAND. 


me ! what  you  have  done  for  me  through  all  those  years  of  beauti- 
ful sacrifice!  ” he  added,  when  his  voice  came  back. 

“Dearest,  I have  only  loved  you,”  replied  Lilian. 

“You  have  only  loved  me,”  echoed  Henry,  pressing  her  hand 
more  closely  to  his  heart;  “ that  is  all.  Sometimes  I think  I should 
not  have  been  happier  if  we  had  been  united  in  our  youth,  and  lived 
all  those  years  of  fuller  life  together.  Darling,  there  are  compensa- 
tions: it  was  worth  going  to  prison  all  those  years  to  find  you  at 
the  end.”  And  he  thought,  but  did  not  say,  that  Cyril’s  treachery 
was  atoned  by  his  twin  sister’s  loyalty. 

Lilian  always  felt  that  she  must  make  up  to  Henry  all  the  sor- 
row caused  by  Cyril ; while  Henry,  remembering  what  Cyril’s  sin 
had  cost  her,  felt  that  he  could  never  do  enough  to  make  up  for  it. 

“Of  one  thing  I am  quite  sure,”  he  added,  as  they  reached  the 
gate,  and  the  evening  sky,  with  its  one  white  star,  looked  down 
upon  their  happy  faces,  “ the  young  couple  in  the  'pension  over  the 
way  have  not  half  so  sweet  a honeymoon  as  ours.” 

Just  then  light  footsteps  came  bounding  up  from  the  lake-side 
toward  them,  and  Marion  and  the  blind  boy,  Everard,  their  young 
faces  flushed  with  pleasure  and  exercise,  came  running  to  them,  fol- 
lowed by  Herr  Obermann,  who  now  acted  as  the  tutor  to  both  boy 
and  girl. 

“ I rowed  the  whole  way,  and  Marry  steered ; and  look ! what 
a sack  of  pine-cones  I have  for  grandfather!  ” cried  Everard,  gaily, 
as  Lilian  received  him  with  a caress,  for  they  encouraged  his  caress- 
ing ways  in  consideration  of  the  blindness  which  debarred  him  from 
the  pleasure  of  realizing  his  friends’  presence  by  touch.  Then  they 
all  entered  the  salon  together,  and  grouped  about  the  blazing  hearth 
for  the  idle  evening  hour  they  so  delighted  in,  while  Herr  Obermann 
left  them  to  enjoy  his  pipe  and  his  volume  of  Kant  in  his  own  espe- 
cial den. 

Little  Everard  sat  by  his  grandfather,  and  handed  him  pine- 
cones,  which  the  latter  threw  on  the  fire,  with  childlike  pleasure  in 
the  blaze  and  crackle  they  made,  and  in  which  the  blind  child  also 
took  a strange  delight,  saying  that  he  could  feel  the  brightness. 
These  two  were  firm  friends,  never  so  happy  as  when  one  could 
help  the  other.  Everard  delighted  to  wheel  his  grandfather’s  chair, 
or  lend  him  his  arm  ; while  Mr.  Maitland  would  read  aloud  for  the 
boy’s  benefit,  indifferent  to  the  book  he  read,  since  his,  memory  had 
left  him  on  the  day  of  Cyril’s  death,  and  he  could  thus  repeat  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


369 


same  book  over  and  over  again,  with  a fresh  sense  of  pleasure  each 
time,  a power  that  was  useful  to  the  boy  in  enabling  him  to  get  pas- 
sages, especially  passages  of  poetry,  by  heart. 

Mr.  Maitland  never  realized  Cyril’s  death ; he  remained  under 
the  impression  that  they  were  always  on  a journey  to  Belminster 
to  visit  the  dean,  and  was  perfectly  patient,  his  lack  of  memory  de- 
stroying all  sense  of  the  passage  of  time.  Every  evening,  when  Lil- 
ian visited  him  in  his  bed  to  bid  him  good-night,  he  asked  if  they 
were  going  on  to  Belminster  to-morrow,  and  when  Lilian  replied, 
“Not  to-morrow,  dear  father;  perhaps  the  day  after,”  went  to 
sleep  in  perfect  content,  until  one  night,  about  three  years  after  the 
dean's  death,  when,  instead  of  putting  his  usual  question,  he  said, 
very  quietly,  “I  shall  be  with  him  before  morning,”  and  turned  to 
his  rest  with  a happy  smile,  and  in  the  morning  they  found  him  in 
the  same  restful  attitude,  dead. 

There  was  nothing  distressing  in  the  merciful  infirmity  which 
had  spared  his  gray  head  such  bitter  sorrow.  He  was  to  the  last 
the  same  courtly,  polished  gentleman ; the  same  genial  companion, 
delighting  in  all  that  was  beautiful  and  elevating,  and  content  to 
look  on  at  the  life  going  on  around  him. 

He  could  discourse  of  long  past  events,  and  of  art  and  literature, 
as  well  as  ever,  but  his  mind  never  received  any  fresh  impressions 
after  the  tremendous  blow  that  crushed  it.  On  meeting  strangers, 
he  was  sure  to  introduce  the  following  phrase  into  the  conversation  : 
— “You  may  perhaps  know  my  son,  the  Dean  of  Belminster.  He 
has  just  been  presented  to  the  See  of  Warham.”  This  was  the  only 
painful  circumstance  connected  with  his  infirmity,  save  that  he 
never  could  grasp  the  fact  that  Henry  and  Lilian  were  married,  and 
occasionally  embarrassed  them  considerably,  by  blandly  asking  them 
what  date  was  fixed  for  the  wedding,  and  always  alluded  to  Lilian 
as  Miss  Maitland,  a circumstance  that  led  strangers  to  suppose  that 
he  referred  to  his  grand aughter,  Marion. 

The  children  were  carefully  guarded  from  all  knowledge  of  their 
father’s  transgressions.  It  was,  of  course,  easy  to  keep  the  news- 
papers from  Everard;  and,  with  a little  care,  Marion  was  also 
shielded  from  them.  The  Times  of  the  Monday  following  the  dean’s 
death  published  the  telegram  stating  that  he  had  died  suddenly  in 
the  cathedral  at  the  close  of  an  eloquent  sermon  the  day  before,  and 
also  gave  such  a sketch  of  his  life  up  to  its  close  as  is  its  usual  cus- 
tom on  the  death  of  eminent  men,  and  this  paper  Marion  read. 


370 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


greatly  wondering  that  no  account  of  dear  papa’s  funeral  ever  ap- 
peared. Lilian  took  them  away  from  Belminster  as  soon  as  Mr. 
Maitland  could  be  moved,  to  a quiet  seaside  village,  where  they  re- 
mained till  her  marriage.  To  guard  them  more  effectually  from  any 
chance  knowledge  of  the  truth,  as  well  as  to  restore  Henry’s  shat- 
tered health,  it  was  decided  that  the  little  family  should  live  abroad 
for  some  years  at  least. 

His  physician  had  told  Henry  that  he  would  never  be  fit  for 
mental  labor  of  any  intensity  or.  long  duration,  and  he  accepted  the 
prospect  of  a life  of  busy  idleness,  which  in  the  end  proved  very 
happy,  however  different  to  that  he  had  anticipated  in  his  youth. 
He  was  thus  obliged  for  ever  to  renounce  his  beloved  profession, 
though  he  never  lost  interest  in  it,  or  ceased  to  cultivate  the  mani- 
fold studies  connected  with  it.  In  his  quiet  leisure  he  found  oppor- 
tunity to  set  before  the  public  much  valuable  information  on  prison 
life,  and  particularly  to  indicate  its  hygienic  aspects,  mental  as  well 
as  physical. 

In  the  serene  happiness  of  his  later  years,  it  was  sweet  to  Henry 
to  dwell  on  the  brighter  scenes  of  his  life  in  the  prison  which  had 
at  last  become  so  dear  to  him,  and  contained  so  many  friends,  and 
he  often  talked  of  it,  the  more  so  as  little  Everard  manifested  an  in- 
tense interest  in  everything  connected  with  captivity.  He  had  all 
The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  ” by  heart,  and  loved  to  go  into  the 
vaulted  dungeon  in  the  castle,  and  touch  the  “pillars  of  Gothic 
mold,”  and  the  ring  to  which  Bonnivard  was  chained,  and  listen 
to  the  lapping  of  the  water  on  its  massive  walls,  and  hear  people 
speak  of  the  dim  light  with  its  watery  refiections.  Both  children 
knew  from  their  first  meeting  with  their  uncle  of  his  unmerited 
punishment,  and  understood  that  his  innocence  had  been  proved  be- 
yond all  doubt,  but  they  never  were  told  who  was  the  real  criminal. 

Marion  remembered  the  incident  of  giving  the  handkerchief  to 
the  man  whose  shaven  head  roused  her  little  brother’s  innocent  sus- 
picions the  day  they  waited  in  the  pony  chaise  outside  the  house  of 
Leslie’s  widow,  and  it  was  her  great  delight,  as  well  as  her  brother's, 
to  get  “ dear  Uncle  Henry  ” in  the  mood  to  relate  the  moving  inci- 
dents of  his  escape  and  brief  spell  of  freedom,  and  they  invariably 
wept  with  great  enjoyment  at  the  tragic  close  of  the  narrative, 
when  the  fugitive  sank  into  the  death-like  unconsciousness  of  ex- 
haustion and  starvation. 

Henry  and  Lilian  became  the  types  of  true  lovers  in  the  eyes  of 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  371 


the  numerous  young  people  growing  up  around  them,  and  were 
always  appealed  to  against  the  decisions  of  flinty-hearted  parents 
and  guardians  in  the  crises  of  their  love-affairs;  they  also  became  a 
second  father  and  mother  to  the  many  Maitlands,  Swaynestones, 
Everards,  and  others  of  the  rising  generation,  all  of  whom  regarded 
a visit  to  Uncle  Henry  and  Aunt  Lilian  as  the  height  of  bliss.  So 
that,  although  tlieir  long-deferred  marriage  was  childless,  it  was 
blest  with  the  love  of  many  young  creatures,  besides  the  especial 
children,  Marion  and  Eyerard  and  Benjamin  Lee. 

The  little  family  was  already  knit  together  on  that  November 
evening  in  bonds  of  strong  and  deep  affection.  They  made  a pleas- 
ant picture  in  the  warm  firelight,  the  white-haired  man,  with  the 
blind  boy  nestling  to  his  side,  feeding  the  bright  hearth  with  resin- 
ous fir-apples ; Henry  and  Lilian  side  by  side  opposite  them ; and 
Marion  sitting  on  the  rug  in  the  full  blaze,  with  her  head  resting 
against  Lilian’s  knee,  while  she  read  her  letters  in  the  firelight. 

“ The  new  dean,”  she  quoted  from  her  girl-friend’s  letter,  “is 
the  antipodes  of  your  dear  papa,  whom  we  shall  never  cease  to  la- 
ment. Mrs.  Little’s  baby  could  not  be  got  to  sleep  on  any  condition 

whatever,  and  naughty  Canon  Warne  asked  Mrs.  L why  she  did 

not  try  one  of  the  dean’s  sermons.  He  is  dreadfully  learned  (the 
dean,  not  the  baby),  and  a regular  frump ; his  wife  and  daughters 
(five)  are  all  frumps,  with  red  noses  and  hands  and  big  feet.  We 
called  at  the  dear  Deanery  on  Thursday,  and  oh ! Marry,  I thought 
my  heart  would  break  when  I saw  all  the  dear  old  pretty  things ; 
and,  when  tea  was  brought  in  and  placed  on  the  very  same  table, 
Ethel  and  I burst  out  crying.  Jim  says  it  was  the  worst  possible 
form,  and  mother  was  ready  to  sink  through  the  carpet  with  shame. 
The  dean  is  so  absent  that  he  stirs  his  tea  with  the  sugar-tongs,  and 
never  remembers  who  people  are,  unless  it  is  desirable  to  forget. 
Imagine  the  contrast  to  our  dean.  Your  uncle  George  is  driving 
the  bishop  to  distraction  with  his  goings  on  at  St.  Chad’s.  They 
say  the  poor  bishop  has  gone  down  on  his  knees  and  asked  him  as 
a personal  favor  to  travel  for  a year  or  so.  The  new  tenor  has  the 
most  glorious  voice.  Dr.  Rydal  says  it  makes  him  ten  years  younger. 
I think  your  uncle  Henry  knows  him — a handsome  fellow  named 
Lee.  The  Times  says  that  Lady  Swaynestone  has  twins.”  (“Dear 
me.  Uncle  Henry,”  interrupted  Marion,  “how  twins  do  run  in  our 
family ! ”)  “ The  last  we  heard  of  them,  Lionel  and  Lilian  were  as 

naughty  as  they  could  live,  so  it  is  a good  thing.  So  Mr.  Leonard 


372 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


Maitland  is  to  be  married  in  the  spring.  Jim  knows  her  people 
well.  How  we  miss  Everard’s  voice!  etc.  “ And  yet,”  said  Man- 
on,  as  she  finished  her  letter,  “ I do  not  wish  to  go  back  to  dear 
Belminster.  It  would  be  too  sad.” 

And  her  brother  echoed  her  words;  and  then,  after  their  even- 
ing meal  of  Swiss  fare,  Everard’S  violin  and  his  tutor’s  came  out, 
and  there  were  music  and  the  singing  of  sweet  old  glees,  while  Mr. 
Maitland  sat  listening  happily  by  the  fire,  and  Henry  heard  from 
behind  his  paper  or  joined  in,  when  required,  until  the  hour  came 
for  the  blind  boy  to  stand  before  his  grandfather  and  repeat  the 
evening  psalms,  which  he  knew  by  heart  from  his  chorister  experi- 
ence ; and  the  young  folk  and  their  grandfather  went  to  their  rest, 
and  Herr  Obermann  to  his  pipe,  and  Henry  and  Lilian  were  left  by 
the  bright  hearth  together.  That  was  the  happiest  time  in  all  the 
happy  day. 


THE  END, 


APPLETONS’  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY. 

PUBLISHED  SEMIMONTHLY. 


1.  The  Steel  Hammer.  By  Louis  Ulbach. 

2.  Em.  A Novel.  By  S.  Baring-Gould. 

3.  For  Fifteen  Years.  A Sequel  to  The  Steel  Hammer.  By  Louis  Ulbach. 

4..  A Counsel  of  Perfection.  A Novel.  By  Lucas  Malet. 

5.  The  Deemster.  A Romance.  By  Hall  Caine. 

5. L  The  Bondman.  (New  edition.)  By  Hall  Caine. 

6.  A Virginia  Inheritance.  By  Edmund  Pendleton. 

7.  Ninette : An  Idyll  of  Provence.  By  the  author  of  Vera. 

8.  “ The  Right  Honourable.''’'  By  Justin  McCarthy  and  Mrs.  Campbbll-Praed. 
d.  'The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland.  By  Maxwell  Gray. 

10.  Mrs.  LoHmer : A Study  in  Black  and  White.  By  Lucas  Malet. 

11.  The  Elect  Lady.  By  George  MacDonald. 

12.  The  Mystery  of  the Ocean  Star,''"  By  W.  Clark  Russell. 

13.  Aristocracy.  A Novel. 

14.  A Recoiling  Vengeance.  By  Frank  Barrett.  With  Illustrations. 

15.  Tiu  Secret  of  Fontaine-la- Croix.  By  Margaret  Field. 

16.  The  Master  of  Rathkelly.  By  Hawley  Smart. 

17.  Donovan : A Modern  Englishman.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

18.  This  Mortal  Coil.  By  Grant  Allen. 

19.  A Fair  Emigrant.  By  Rosa  Mulholland. 

20.  The  Apostate.  By  Ernest  Daudet. 

21.  Raleigh  Westgate : or,  Epimenides  in  Maine.  By  Helen  Kendrick  Johnson. 

22.  Arius  the  Libyan.  A Romance  of  the  Primitive  Church. 

23.  Constance^  and  CalboVs  Rival.  By  Julian  Hawthorne. 

24.  We  Two.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

25.  A Dreamer  of  Dreams.  By  the  author  of  Thoth. 

26.  The  Ladies"  Gallery.  By  Justin  McCarthy  and  Mrs.  Campbbll-Praed. 

27.  The  Reproach  of  Annesley.  By  Maxwell  Gray. 

28.  Near  to  Happiness. 

29.  In  the  Wire  Grass.  By  Louis  Pendleton. 

80.  Lace.  A Berlin  Romance.  By  Paul  Lindau. 

301.  I'he  Black  Poodle.  By  F.  Anstey. 

81.  American  Coin.  A Novel.  By  the  author  of  Aristocracy. 

32.  Won  by  Waiting.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

33.  The  Story  of  Helen  Davenant.  By  Violet  Fane. 

34.  The  Light  of  Her  Countenance.  By  H.  H.  Boyesen. 

35.  Mistress  Beatrice  Cope.  My  M.  E.  Le  Clerc. 

36.  The  Knight-Errant.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

37.  In  the  Golden  Days.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

38.  Giraldi ; or,  The* Curse  of  Love.  By  Ross  George  Dering. 

39.  A Hardy  NO'rseman.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

40.  The  Romance  of  Jenny  Harlowe,  and  Sketches  of  Maritime  Life.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell. 

41.  Passion" s Slave.  By  Richard  Ashe-King. 

42.  The  Awakening  of  Mary  Fenwick.  By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

43.  Countess  Loreley.  Translated  from  the  German  of  Rudolf  Menger. 

44.  Blind  Love.  By  Wilkie  Collins. 

45.  The  Dean"s  Daughter.  By  Sophie  F.  F.  Veitch. 

46.  Countess  Irene.  A Romance  of  Austrian  Life.  By  J.  Fogerty.  * 

47.  Robert  Brownino"s  Principal  Shorter  Poems. 

48.  Frozen  Hearts.  By  G.  Webb  Appleton.  ' 

49.  Djambek  the  Georgian.  By  A.  G.  von  Suttner. 

5U  The  Cmzeef  Christian  Engelhart.  By  Henry  Faulkner  Darnell. 

51.  Lai.  By  William  A.  Hammond,  M.  D. 

52.  Aline.  A Novel.  By  Henry  Greville. 

53.  Jwst  Avelingh.^  A Dutch  Story.  By  Maarten  Maartens. 

M.  Katy  of  Catoctin.  By  George  Alfred  Townsend. 

50.  Throckmorton.  A Novel.  By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

56.  Expatriation.  By  the  author  of  Aristocracy. 

67.  Geoffrey  Hampstead.  By  T.  S.  Jarvis. 


APPLETONS’  TOWN  AND  COUNTKY  I.YSRK-RY,— {Continued.) 


58.  Dmitri.  A Romance  of  Old  Russia.  By  F.  W.  Bain,  M.  A. 

59.  Part  of  the  Property.  By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

60.  Bismarck  in  Private  Life.  By  a Fellow-Student. 

61.  In  Low  Relief.  By  Morley  Roberts. 

62.  The  Canadians  of  Old.  A Historical  Romance.  By  Philippe  Gaspe. 

63.  A Squire  of  Low  Degree.  By  Lily  A.  Long. 

64.  A Fluttered  Dovecote.  By  George  Manville  Fenn. 

65.  The  Nugents  of  Carriconna.  An  Irish  Story.  By  Tighe  Hopkins. 

66.  A Sensitive  Plant.  By  E.  and  D.  Gerard. 

67.  Dona  Luz.  By  Juan  Valera.  Translated  by  Mrs.  Mary  J.  Serrano. 

68.  Pepita  Ximenez.  By  Juan  Valera.  Translated  by  Mrs.  Mary  J.  Serrano. 

69.  The  Primes  and  their  Neighbors.  By  Richard  Malcolm  Johnston. 

70.  The  Iron  Game.  By  Henry  F.  Keenan. 

71.  Stories  of  Old  New  Spain.  By  Thomas  A.  Janvier. 

72.  The  Maid  of  Honor.  By  Hon.  Lewis  Wingfield. 

73.  In  the  Heart  of  the  Storm.  By  Maxwell  Gray. 

74.  Consequences.  By  Egerton  Castle. 

75.  The  Three  Miss  Kings.  By  Ada  Cambridge. 

76.  A Matter  of  Skill.  By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

77.  Maid  Marian.,  and  Other  Stories.  By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

78.  One  Woman''s  Way.  By  Edmund  Pendleton. 

79.  A Merciful  Divorce.  By  F.  W.  Maude. 

80.  Stephen  EllicotVs  Daughter.  By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell. 

81.  One  Reason  Why.  By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

82.  The  Tragedy  of  Ida  Noble.  By  W.  Clark  Russell. 

83.  The  Johnstoum  Stage,  and  other  Stories.  By  Robert  H.  Fletcher. 

84.  A Widower  Indeed.  By  Rhoda  Broughton  and  Elizabeth  Bisland. 

85.  The  Flight  of  a Shadow.  By  George  MacDonald. 

86.  Love  W’  Money.  By  Katharine  Lee. 

87.  Not  All  in  Vain.  By  Ada  Cambridge. 

88.  It  Happened  Yesterday.  By  Frederick  Marshall. 

89.  My  Guardian.  By  Ada  Cambridge. 

90.  The  Story  of  Philip  Methuen.  By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell. 

91.  Amethyst : The  Story  of  a Beauty.  By  Ciiristabel  R.  Coleridge. 

92.  Don  Braulio.  By  Juan  Valera.  Translated  by  Clara  Bell. 

93.  The  Chronicles  qf  Mr.  Bill  Williams.  By  Richard  Malcolm  Johnston. 

94.  A Queen  of  Curds  and  Cream.  By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

95.  “ La  Bella  ” and  Others.  By  Egerton  Castle. 

96.  December  Roses."'''  By  Mrs.  Campbell  Praed. 

97.  Jean  deKerdren.  By  Jeanne  Schultz. 

98.  Etelkafs  Vow.  By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

99.  Cross  Currents.  By  Mary  A.  Dickens. 

100.  His  Life's  Magnet.  By  Theodora  Elmslie. 

101.  Passing  the  Love  of  Women.  By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell. 

102.  In  Old  St.  Stephen's.  By  Jeanie  Drake. 

103.  The  Berkeleys  and  their  Neighbors.  By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

104  Mona  Maclean,  Medical  Student.  By  Graham  Travers. 

105.  Mrs.  Bligh.  By  Rhoda  Broughton. 

106.  A Stumble  on  the  Threshold.  By  James  Payn. 

107.  Hanging  Moss.  By  Paul  Lindau. 

108.  A Comedy  of  Elopement.  By  Christian  Reid. 

109.  In  the  Suntime  of  her  Youth.  By  Beatrice  W^hitby. 

110'.  Stories  in  Black  and  White.  By  Thomas  Hardy  and  Others. 

110|.  An  Englishman  in  Paris.  Notes  and  Recollections. 

111.  Commander  Mendoza.  By  Juan  Valera. 

112.  Dr.  Pauli's  Theory.  By  Mrs.  A.  M.  Diehl. 

113.  Children  of  Destiny.  By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

114.  A Little  Ylinx.  By  Ada  Cambridge. 

115.  Capt'n  Davy's  Honeymoon.  By  Hall  Caine. 

116.  The  Voice  of  a Flower.  By  E.  Gerard. 

117.  Singidarly  Deluded.  By  Sarah  Grand. 

118.  Suspected.  By  Louisa  Stratenus. 

119.  Lucia,  Hugh,  and  Another.  By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell. 

1^.  The  Tutor's  Secret.  By  Victor  Cherbuliez. 


APPLETONS’  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  llJmKRY.— {Continued,) 


121.  From  the  Five  Rivers.  By  Mrs,  F.  A.  Steel. 

122.  An  Innocent  Impostor.,  and  Other  Stories.  By  Maxwell  Gkat. 

123.  Ideala.  By  Sarah  Grand. 

124.  A Comedy  of  Masks.  By  Ernest  Dowson  and  Arthur  Moore. 

125.  Relics.  By  Frances  MacNab. 

120.  Dodo : A Detail  of  the  Day.  By  E.  F.  Benson. 

127.  A Wcman  of  Forty.  By  Esme  Stuart. 

128.  Diana  Tempest,  By  Mary  Cholmondeley. 

129.  The  Recipe  for  Diamonds.  By  C.  J.  Cutcliefe  Hynb. 

1^.  Christina  Chard.  By  Mrs.  Campbell-Praed. 

131.  A Gray  Eye  or  So.  By  Frank  Frankfort  Moore. 

132.  Earlscourt.  By  Alexander  Allardyce. 

133.  A Marriage  Ceremony.  By  Ada  Cambridge. 

1.S4.  A Ward  in  Chancery.  By  Mrs.  Alexander. 

136.  Lot  13.  By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

136.  Our  Manifold  Nature.  By  Sarah  Grand. 

137.  A Costly  Freak.  By  Maxwell  Gray. 

138.  A Beginner.  By  Ehoda  Broughton. 

139.  A Yellow  Aster.  By  Mrs.  Mannington  Caffyn  (“  Iota”). 

140.  The  Rubicon.  By  E.  F.  Benson. 

141.  The  Trespasser.  By  Gilbert  Parker. 

142.  The  Rich  Miss  Riddell.  By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

143.  Mary  FenwicEs  Daughter.  By  Teatrice  Whitby. 

144.  Red  Diamonds.  By  Justin  McCarthy. 

145.  A Daughter  of  Music.  By  G.  Colmore. 

146.  Outlaw  and  Lawmaker.  By  Mrs.  Campbell-Praed. 

147.  Dr.  Janet  of  Haiiey  Street.  By  Arabella  Kenealy. 

148.  George  Mandeville’' s Husband.  By  C.  E.  Raimond. 

149.  Vashti  and  Esther. 

150.  TimaEs  Two  Worlds.  ByM.  Jokai. 

151.  A Victim  of  Good  Luck.  By  W.  E.  Norris. 

152.  The  Trail  of  the  Sword.  By  Gilbert  Parker. 

153.  A Mild  Barbarian.  By  Edgar  Fawcett. 

154.  The  God  in  the  Car.  By  Anthony  Hope. 

155.  Children  of  Circumstance.  By  Mrs.  M.  Caffyn. 

156.  At  the  Gate  of^  Samaria.  By  William  J.  Locke. 

1.57.  The  Justification  of  Andrew  Lebrun.  By  Frank  Barrett. 

158.  Dust  and  Laurels.  By  Mary  L.  Penderbd. 

159.  The  Good  Ship  Mohock.  By  W.  Clark  Russell. 

160.  Noemi.  By  S.  Baring-Gould. 

161.  The  Honour  of  Savelli.  By  S.  Levett  Yeats. 

162.  Kitty''s  Engagement.  By  Florence  Warden. 

163.  The  Mermaid.  By  L.  Dougall. 

164.  An  Arranged  Marriage.  By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

165.  Eve'^s  Ransom.  By  George  Gissing. 

166.  The  Marriage  of  Esther.  By  Guy  Boothby. 

167.  Fidelis.  By  Ada  Cambridge. 

168.  Into  the  Highways  and  Hedges.  By  F.  F.  Montrjesor. 

169.  The  Vengeance  of  James  Vansittart.  By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NEBDELLa 

170.  A Study  in  Prejudices.  By  George  Paston. 

171.  The  Mistress  of  Quest.  By  Adeline  Sergeant. 

172.  In  the  Year  of  Jubilee.  By  George  Gissing. 

173.  In  Old  New  England.  By  Hezekiah  Butterworth. 

174.  Mrs.  Musgrave — and  Her  Husband.  By  R.  Marsh. 

175.  Not  Counting  the  Cost.  By  Tasma. 

176.  Out  of  Due  Season.  By  Adeline  Sergeant. 

177.  Scylla  or  Charybdis  ? By  Rhoda  Broughton. 

178.  In  Defiance  of  the Hing.  By  C.  C.  Hotchkiss. 

179.  A Bid  for  Fortune.  By  Guy  Boothby. 

180.  The  Enng  qf  Andaman.  By  J.  Maclaren  Cobban. 

181.  Mrs.  Tregaskiss.  By  Mrs.  Campbell-Praed. 

182.  The  Desire  qf  the  Moth.  By  Capel  Vane. 

183.  A Self-Denying  Ordinance.  By  M.  Hamilton. 

184.  Successors  to  the  Title.  By  Mrs.  L.  B.  Walford. 


APPLETONS’  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  lABUKRY. -{Continued.') 


185.  The  Lost  Stradivarius.  By  J.  Meade  Faekner. 

186.  The  W/’rong  Man.  By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

187.  In  the  Day  of  Adversity.  By  J.  Bloundelle-Burton. 

188.  Mistress  Dorothy  Marvin.  ByJ.  C.  Snaith. 

189.  A Flash  of  Summer.  By  Mrs.  W.  K.  Clifford. 

190.  The  Dancer  in  Yellow.  By  W.  E.  Norris. 

191.  The  Chronicles  of  Martin  Hewitt.  By  Arthur  Morrison. 

192.  A Winning  Hazard.  By  Mrs.  Alexander. 

193.  The  Picture  of  Las  Cruets.  By  Christian  Reid. 

194.  The  Madonna  of  a Day.  By  L.  Dougall. 

195.  The  Riddle  Ring.  By  Justin  McCarthy. 

196.  A Humble  Enterprise.  By  Ada  Cambridge. 

197.  Dr.  Nikola.  By  Guy  Boothby. 

198.  An  Outcast  of  the  Islands.  By  Joseph  Conrad. 

199.  The  King‘‘s  Revenge.  By  Claude  Bray. 

200.  Denounced.  By  J.  Bloundelle-Burton. 

201.  A Court  Intrigue.  By  Basil  Thompson. 

202.  The  Idol-Maker.  By  Adeline  Sergeant. 

203.  The  Intriguers.  By  John  D.  Barry. 

201.  Master  Ardick.,  Buccaneer.  By  F.  H.  Costello. 

205.  With  Fortune  Made.  By  Victor  Cherbuliez. 

206.  Fellow  Travellers.  By  Graham  Travers. 

207.  McLeod  of  the  Camerons.  By  M.  Hamilton. 

208.  The  Career  of  Candida.  By  George  Paston. 

209.  Arrested.  By  Esme  Stuart. 

210.  Tatterley.  By  T.  Gallon. 

211.  A Pinchbeck  Goddess.  By  Mrs.  J.  M.  Fleming  (Alice  M.  Kipling). 

212.  Perfection  City.  By  Mrs.  Orpen. 

213.  A Spotless  Reputation.  By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

214.  A Galahad  of  the  Creeks.  By  S.  Levett  Yeats. 

215.  The  Beautiful  Wlhite  Devil.  By  Guy  Boothby. 

216.  The  Sun  of  Saratoga.  By  Joseph  A.  Altsheler. 

217.  Fierceheaft,  the  Soldier.  By  J.  C.  Snaith. 

218.  Marietta''s  Marriage.  By  W.  E.  Norris. 

219.  Dear  Faustina.  By  Rhoda  Broughton. 

220.  Nulma.  By  Mrs.  Campbell- Praed. 

221.  The  Folly  of  Pen  Harrington.  By  Julian  Sturgis. 

222.  A Colonial  Free-Lance.  By  C.  C.  Hotchkiss. 

223.  His  Majestifs  Greatest  Subject.  By  S.  S.  Tiiorburn. 

224.  Mifamvy : A Welsh  Singer.  By  Allen  Raine. 

225.  A Soldier  of  Manhattan.  By  Joseph  A.  Altsheler. 

226.  Fortune's  Footballs.  By  G.  B.  Burgin. 

227.  The  Clash  of  Arms.  By  J.  Bloundelle-Burton. 

228.  God''s  Foundling.  By  A.  J.  Dawson. 

229.  Miss  Providence.  By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

230.  The  Freedom  of  Henry  Meredyth.  By  M.  Hamilton. 

231.  Sweethearts  and  Friends.  By  Maxwell  Gray. 

232.  Sunset.  By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

233.  A Fiery  Ordeal.  By  Tasma. 

234.  A Prince  of  Mischance.  By  T.  Gallon. 

235.  A Passionate  Pilgrim.  By  Percy  White. 

236.  This  Little  World.  By  David  Christie  Murray. 

237.  A Forgotten  Sin.  By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

238.  The  Incidental  Bishop.  By  Grant  Allen.  ' . 

239.  The  Lake  of  Wine.  By  Bernard  Capes. 

240.  A Trooper  of  the  Empress.  By  Clinton  Ross. 

241.  Torn  Sails.  By  Allen  Raine. 

242.  Materfamilias.  By  Ada  Cambridge. 

243.  John  of  Strathhourne.  By  R.  D.  Chetwode. 

244.  The  Millionaires.  By  F.  Frankfort  Moore. 

245.  The  Looms  of  Time.  By  Mrs.  Hugh  Fraser. 

216.  The  Q^ueeFs  Cup.  By  G.  A.  Henty. 


D.  APPLETON  ANO  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK, 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY’S  PUBLICATIONS, 


“A  VERY  REMARKABLE  BOOK.” 

HE  BETH  BOOK.  By  Sarah  Grand,  author  of 

“ The  Heavenly  Twins,”  etc.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

Readers  will  linger  delightedly  over  one  of  the  freshest  and  deepest  studies  of 
child  character  ever  given  to  the  world,  and  hereafter  will  find  it  an  ever-present  factor 
in  ^eir  literary  recollections  and  impressions." — London  Globe. 

“ Here  there  are  humor,  observation,  and  sympathetic  insight  into  the  tempera- 
ments both  of  men  and  women.  ’ — Londoti  Daily  Chronicle. 

“ Beth  and  her  environments  live  before  us.  We  see  her  sensitive  as  a musical 
instrument  to  the  touch  of  surrounding  influences,  every  latent  quality  for  good  and 
evil  in  her  already  warring  for  mastery." — London  Daily  Dews. 

“There  is  much  vivacity,  much  sympathy  for  the  moods  of  girlhood,  and  with  the 
strange,  quaint,  happy  fancies  of  a child ; and  much  power  of  representing  these 
things  with  humor,  eloquence,  and  feeling." — Westminster  Gazette. 

“ Sarah  Grand’s  new  work  of  fiction,  * The  Beth  Book,’  will  be  likely  to  meet  a 
wider  acceptance  than  her  famous  book,  ‘The  Heavenly  Twins,’  for  the  reason  that  it 
is  a more  attractive  piece  of  literary  workmanship,  and  has  about  it  a certain  human 
interest  that  the  other  book  lacked.  . . . Madame  Grand’s  wit  and  humor,  her 
mastery  of  a direct  and  forceful  style,  her  quick  insight,  and  the  depth  of  her  penetra- 
tion into  human  character,  were  never  more  apparent  than  in  ‘The  Beth  Book.’" — 
Brooklyn  Eagle. 

“ ‘ The  Beth  Book  ’ is  important  because  it  is  one  of  the  few  intelligent  and 
thoughtful  studies  of  life  that  have  appeared  this  season.  . . . The  essence  of  the 
whole  book  is  the  effort  to  study  and  to  trace  the  evolution  of  character ; and  because 
the  author  has  done  this  to  admiration,  her  book  is  a success.  Moreover,  it  is  writ- 
ten with  a masterly  command  • of  style,  and  is  so  utterly  absorbing  and  so  strongly 
and  connectedly  logical,  that  the  author’s  thought  impresses  you  at  every  line.  You 
skip  nothing.  Even  a reader  whom  the  deeper  qualities  of  the  book  failed  to  hold 
would  follow  every  incident  from  sheer  pleasure  in  its  vividness,  its  picturesqueness, 
and  its  entertainment." — Boston  Herald. 

“‘'J'he  Beth  Book  ’ is  distinctly  a notable  achievement  in  fiction.  . . . Written 
in  a style  that  is  picturesque,  vigorous,  and  varied,  with  abundance  of  humor,  ex- 
cellence of  graphic  description,  and  the  ability  to  project  her  chief  characters  with  a 
boldness  of  relief  that  is  rare." — Philadelphia  Press. 

“ One  of  the  strongest  and  most  remarkable  books  of  the  year.  ...  ‘ The  Beth 

Book  ’ stands  by  itself.  There  is  nothing  with  which  to  compare  it." — Buffalo 
Express. 

“ ‘ The  Beth  Book’  is  a powerful  book.  It  is  written  with  wonderful  insight  and 
equally  wonderful  vividness  of  portrayal.  It  is  absorbingly  interesting.  . . . The 
heroine  awakens  our  wonder,  pity,  and  admiration.  We  soon  become  enthralled  by 
the  fascinating  study,  and  follow  her  physical  and  spiritual  footsteps  with  breathless 
eagerness  from  page  to  page,  from  stage  to  stage  of  her  development  and  the  fore- 
shadbwings  of  her  destiny." — Boston  Advertiser. 

“ In  ‘The  Beth  Book  ’ the  novelist  has  given  us  a story  at  once  a marvelously  well- 
evolved  study  in  psychology  and  at  the  same  time  an  absorbing  review  of  human  life 
in  its  outward  aspects.  ‘ The  Beth  Book  ’ is  a wonder  m its  departure  from  conven- 
tional methods  of  fiction,  and  in  an  ever-growing  charm  in  its  development  and 
sequence." — San  Francisco  Call. 

“ Decidedly  a notable  addition  to  the  few  works  which  are  of  such  quality  to  be 
classed  as  ‘ books  of  the  year.’  There  are  many  reasons  for  this.  First,  it  is  an  intel- 
ligent and  faithful  study  of  human  life  and  character ; second,  because  it  has  a depth 
of  purpose  rare  indeed  in  ordinary  fiction  ; and  last,  because  from  start  to  finish  there 
is  a charm  which  never  ceases  to  hold  the  reader’s  interest.  Decidedly,  ‘ The  Beth 
Book  ’ is  a great  book.” — Philadelphia  Item. 


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D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY’S  PUBLICATIONS. 


T 


HE  SEVEN  SEAS,  A new  volume  of  poems  by 
Rudyard  Kipling,  author  of  “ Many  Inventions,”  “ Barrack- 
Room  Ballads,”  etc.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50  ; half  calf,  $3.00  ; 
morocco,  $5.00. 


The  spirit  and  method  of  Kipling’s  fresh  and  virile  song  have  taken  the  English 
reading  world.  . . . When  we  turn  to  the  larger  portion  of  ‘ The  Seven  Seas,’  how 
imaginative  it  is,  how  impassioned,  how  superbly  rhythmic  and  sonorous!  . , . The 
ring  and  diction  of  this  verse  add  new  elements  to  our  song.  . . . The  true  laureate 
of  Greater  Britain.” — E.  C.  Stedmatty  in  the  Book  Buyer, 


**  The  most  original  poet  who  has  appeared  in  his  generation.  . . . His  is  the  lusti- 
est voice  now  lifted  in  the  world,  the  clearest,  the  bravest,  with  the  fewest  false  notes 
in  it.  ...  I do  not  see  why,  in  reading  his  book,  we  should  not  put  ourselves  in  the 
presence  of  a great  poet  again,  and  consent  to  put  off  our  mourning  for  the  high  ones 
lately  dead.” — W.  D.  Howells. 

“ * The  Seven  Seas  ’ is  the  most  remarkable  book  of  verse  that  Mr.  Kipling  has 
given  us.  Here  the  human  sympathy  is  broader  and  deeper,  the  patriotism  heartier 
and  fuller,  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  insight  keener,  the  command  of  the  literary 
vehicle  more  complete  and  sure,  than  in  any  previous  verse  work  by  the  author.  The 
volume  pulses  with  power — power  often  rough  and  reckless  in  expression,  but  invariably 
conveying  the  effect  intended.  There  is  scarcely  a line  which  does  not  testify  to  the 
strong  individuality  of  the  writer.” — London  Globe. 


Mr.  Kipling’s  ‘ The  Seven  Seas  ’ is  a distinct  advance  upon  his  characteristic 
lines.  The  surpassing  strength,  the  almost  violent  originality,  the  glorious  swish  and 
swing  of  his  lines — all  are  there  in  increased  measure.  . . . The  book  is  a marvel  of 
originality  and  genius — a brand-new  landmark  in  the  history  of  English  letters.” — 
Chicago  Tribune. 


IKJANY  INVENTIONS,  By  Rudyard  Kipling. 

Containing  Fourteen  Stories  and  Two  Poems.  i2mo,  427 
pages.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

“ * Many  Inventions  ’ will  confirm  Mr.  Kipling’s  reputation.  . . . We  would  cite 
with  pleasure  sentences  from  almost  every  page,  and  extract  incidents  from  almost 
every  story.  But  to  what  end  ? Here  is  the  completest  book  that  Mr.  Kipling  has  yet 
given  us  in  workmanship,  the  weightiest  and  most  humane  in  breadth  of  view.” — 
Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

Mr.  Kipling’s  powers  as  a story-teller  are  evidently  not  diminishing.  We  advise 
everybody  to  buy  ‘ Many  Inventions,’  and  to  profit  by  some  of  the  best  entertainment 
that  modem  fiction  has  to  offer.” — Hew  York  Sun. 

**  ^ Many  Inventions’  will  be  welcomed  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken. 
. . . Every  one  of  the  stories  bears  the  imprint  of  a master  who  conjures  up  incident 
as  if  by  magic,  and  who  portrays  character,  scenery,  and  feeling  with  an  ease  which  is 
only  exceeded  by  the  boldness  of  force.” — Boston  Globe. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY.  NEW  YORK. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY’S  PUBLICATIONS. 


GILBERT  PARKER’S  BEST  BOOKS. 

Uniform  Edition. 

'J^HE  SEATS  OF  THE  MIGHTY.  Being  the 
Memoirs  of  Captain  Robert  Moray,  sometime  an  Officer  in 
the  Virginia  Regiment,  and  afterwards  of  Amherst’s  Regimentc 
Illustrated,  $1.50. 

Another  historical  romance  of  the  vivicfhe.ss  and  intensity  of ‘The  Seats  of  the 
Mighty  ’ has  never  come  from  the  pen  of  an  American.  Mr.  Parker’s  latest  work  may 
without  hesitation  be  set  down  as  the  best  he  has  done.  From  the  first  chapter  to  the 
last  w'ord  interest  in  the  book  never  wanes ; one  finds  it  difficult  to  interrupt  the  narra- 
tive with  breathing  space.  It  whirls  with  excitement  and  strange  adventure.  . . . All 
of  the  scenes  do  homage  to  the  genius  of  Mr.  Parker,  and  make  ‘ The  Seats  of  the 
Mighty  ’ one  of  the  books  of  the  year.” — Chicago  Record. 

“ Mr.  Gilbert  Parker  is  to  be  congratulated  on  the  excellence  of  his  latest  story, 
‘ The  Seats  of  the  Mighty,’  and  his  readers  are  to  be  congratulated  on  the  direction 
which  his  talents  have  taken  therein.  ...  It  is  so  good  that  we  do  not  stop  to  think  of 
its  literature,  and  the  personality  of  Doltaire  is  a masterpiece  of  creative  art.” — New 
York  Mail  and  Express. 


HE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SWORD.  A Novel. 

$1.25. 

“ Mr.  Parker  here  adds  to  a reputation  already  wide,  and  anew  demonstrates  his 
power  of  pictorial  portrayal  and  of  strong  dramatic  situation  and  climax.” — Philadel- 
phia Bulletin. 

“The  tale  holds  the  reader’s  interest  from  first  to  last,  for  it  is  full  of  fire  and  spirit, 
abounding  in  incident,  and  marked  by  good  character  dxacvf'mg.'^—FRtsdurg  Times. 

'J^HE  TRESPASSER.  $1.25. 

“ Interest,  pith,  force,  and  charm — Mr.  Parker’s  new  story  possesses  all  these 
qualities.  . . . Almost  bare  of  synthetical  decoration,  his  paragraphs  are  stirring  be- 
cause they  are  real.  We  read  at  times— as  we  have  read  the  great  masters  of  romance 
— breathlessly.” — The  Critic. 

“ Gilbert  Parker  writes  a strong  novel,  but  thus  far  this  is  his  masterpiece.  ...  It 
is  one  of  the  great  novels  of  the  year.” — Boston  Advertiser. 


Y^HE  TRANSLATION-  OF  A SAVAGE.  |i.2S. 

“A  book  which  no  one  will  be  satisfied  to  put  down  until  the  end  has  been 
matter  of  certainty  and  assurance.” — The  Nation. 

“A  story  of  remarkable  interest,  originality,  and  ingenuity  of  construction.”— 
Boston  Home  yournal. 


M^.  S.  FALCHION,  ti.25. 

“A  well-knit  story,  told  in  an  exceedingly  interesting  way, and  holding  the 
reader’s  attention  to  the  end.” 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY.  NEW  YORK. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY’S  PUBLICATIONS, 


By  S.  R.  CROCKETT, 

Uniform  edition.  Each,  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 


T 


HE  STANDARD  BEARER. 

Romance. 


An  Historical 


Mr.  Crockett  stands  on  ground  that  he  has  made  his  own  in  this  romance 
of  the  Scottish  Covenanters.  The  story  opens  in  1685,  ‘‘‘  the  Terrible  Year,” 
with  a vivid  picture  of  the  pursuit  of  fugitive  Covenanters  by  the  dragoons. 
The  hero,  who  becomes  a Covenanting  minister,  sees  many  strange  and 
stirring  adventures.  The  charming  love  story  which  runs  through  the  book 
is  varied  by  much  excellent  fighting  and  many  picturesque  incidents.  “The 
Standard  Bearer  ” is  likely  to  be  ranked  by  readers  with  Mr.  Crockett’s 
most  successful  work. 


ADS'  LOVE.  Illustrated. 

“ It  seems  to  us  that  there  is  In  this  latest  product  much  of  the  realism  of  per- 
sonal experience.  However  modified  and  disguised,  it  is  hardly  possible  to  think  that 
the  writer’s  personality  does  not  present  itself  in  Saunders  McQuhirr.  . . . Rarely  has 
the  author  drawn  more  truly  from  life  than  in  the  cases  of  Nance  and  ‘the  Henipie’; 
never  more  typical  Scotsman  of  the  humble  sort  than  the  farmer  Peter  Chryhtie.” — 
London  Atheuceum. 


THEG  KELLY,  ARAB  OF  THE  CLTY.  His 

Progress  and  Adventures.  Illustrated. 

.“A  masterpiece  which  Mark  Twain  himself  has  never  rivaled.  . . . If  there  ever 
was  an  ideal  character  in  fiction  it  is  this  heroic  ragamuffin.” — London  Daily 
Chronicle. 

“In  no  one  of  his  books  does  Mr,  Crockett  give  us  a brighter  or  more  graphic 
picture  of  contemporary  Scotch  life  than  in  ‘ Cleg  Kelly.’  ...  It  is  one  of  the  great 
books,” — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 


OG-MYRTLE  AND  BEAT.  Third  edition. 

“ Here  are  idyls,  epics,  dramas  of  human  life,  written  in  words  that  thrill  and 
burn.  . . . Each  is  a poem  that  ha.s  an  immortal  flavor.  They  are  fragments  of 
the  author’s  early  dreams,  too  bright,  too  gorgeous,  too  full  of  the  blood  of  rubies 
and  the  life  of  diamonds  to  be  caught  and  held  palpitating  in  expression’s  grasp.’’ — 
Boston  Courier. 

“ Hardly  a sketch  among  them  all  that  will  not  afford  pleasure  to  the  reader  for 
its  genial  humor,  artistic  local  coloring,  and  admirable  portrayal  of  character.” — Boston 
Home  Journal. 

^HE  LLLAC  SUNBONNET.  Eighth  edition. 

“A  love  story,  pure  and  simple,  one  of  the  old-fashioned,  wholesome,  sun- 
shiny kind,  with  a pure-minded,  sound-hearted  hero,  and  a heroine,  who  is  merely  a 
good  and  beautiful  woman  ; and  if  any  other  love  story  half  so  sweet  has  been  written 
this  year  it  has  escaped  our  notice.” — New  York  Times. 

“The  general  conception  of  the  story,  the  motive  of  which  is  the  growth  of  love 
between  the  young  chief  and  heroine,  is  delineated  with  a sweetness  and  a freshness, 
a naturalness  and  a certainty,  which  places  ‘ The  Lilac  Sunbonnet  ’ among  the  best 
stories  of  the  time.” — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


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iryENEFITS  FORGOT.  By  Wolcott  Balestier, 

author  of  “ Reffey,”  “ A Common  Story,”  etc.  i2mo.  Cloth, 
$1.50. 

A credit  to  American  literature  and  a monument  to  the  memory  of  the  author/” 
— Boston  Beacon. 

“ The  author  places  his  reader  at  the  very  pulse  of  the  human  machine  when  that 
machine  is  throbbing  most  tumultuously.” — London  Ckronicle. 

“ The  author  manages  a difficult  scene  in  a masterly  way,  and  his  style  is  brilliant 
and  finished.” — Buffalo  Courier. 

“ An  ambitious  work.  . . . The  author’s  style  is  clear  and  graceful.” — New  York 
Times. 

**  Mr.  Balestier  has  done  some  excellent  literary  work,  but  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
pronouncing  this,  his  latest  work,  by  far  his  best.” — Boston  Advertiser. 


D 


UFFELS.  By  Edward  Eggleston,  author  of  ‘‘  The 
Faith  Doctor,”  “ Roxy,”  “ The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,”  etc. 
i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.25. 


A collection  of  stories  each  of  which  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Dr.  Eggles- 
ton at  his  best.” — Baltimore  American. 


“ Destined  to  become  very  popular.  The  stories  are  of  infinite  variety.  All  are 
pleasing,  even  fascinating,  studies  of  the  character,  lives,  and  manners  of  the  periods 
with  which  they  deal.” — Philadelphia  Item. 


'T^HE  FAITH  DOCTOR.  By  Edward  Eggleston, 
author  of  “The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,”  “ The  Circuit  Rider,” 
etc.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

“One  of  the  novels  of  the  decade.” — Rochester  Union  and  Advertiser. 

“ The  author  of  ‘ The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster  ’ has  enhanced  his  reputation  by  this 
beautiful  and  touching  study  of  the  character  of  a girl  to  love  whom  proved  a liberal 
education  to  both  of  her  admirers.” — London  A thenceum. 

“ ‘ The  Faith  Doctor  ’ is  worth  reading  for  its  style,  its  wit,  and  its  humor,  and  not 
less,  we  may  add,  for  its  pathos.” — London  Spectator. 

“Much  skill  is  shown  by  the  author  in  making  these  ‘fads’  the  basis  of  a novel  of 
great  interest.  . . . One  who  tries  to  keep  in  the  current  of  good  novel-reading  must 
certainly  find  time  to  read  ‘ The  Faith  Doctor.’  ” — Bztffalo  Commercial. 


T A BELLA  ’’  AND  OTHERS.  By  Egerton  Cas- 

^ TLE,  author  of  “ Consequences.”  Paper,  50  cents  ; cloth,  $i.co. 

“ The  stories  will  be  welcomed  with  a sense  of  refreshing  pungency  by  readers 
who  have  been  cloyed  by  a too  long  succession  of  insipid  sweetness  and  familiar 
incident.” — London  Athenceum. 

“The  author  is  gifted  with  a lively  fancy,  and  the  clever  plots  he  has  devised  gain 
greatly  in  interest,  thanks  to  the  unfamiliar  surroundings  in  which  the  action  for  the 
most  part  takes  place.” — LoTtdon  Literary  World. 

“ Eight  stories,  all  exhibiting  notable  originality  in  conception  and  mastery  of  art, 
the  first  two  illustrating  them  best.  They  add  a dramatic  power  that  makes  them 
masterpieces.  Both  belong  to  the  period  when  fencing  was  most  skillful,  and  illustrate 
its  practice.” — Boston  Globe. 


New  York:  D.  APPLETON  & CO-  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


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CONVENTIONAL  BOHEMIAN.  By  Edmund 
Pendleton,  author  of  “One  Woman’s  Way,”  etc.  i2mo. 
Paper,  50  cents  ; cloth,  $1.25. 

“The  vividly  drawn  characters  of  this  interesting  and  thoughtful  novel  are  the 
work  of  a man  gifted  with  genius.  . . . We  warmly  acknowledge  that  he  has  given  us 
a rare  and  exquisite  literary  gem.” — Baltimore  American. 

“ Mr.  Pendleton  shows  power  of  invention  and  skill  in  dramatic  arrangement.” — 
New  York  Tribune. 

VIRGINIA  INHERITANCE.  By  Edmund 

Pendleton,  author  of  “ A Conventional  Bohemian,”  “ One 
Woman’s  Way,”  etc.  i2mo.  Paper,  50  cents  ; cloth,  $1.00. 

“ There  is  a warm  sympathy  between  the  author  and  his  characters  and  scenes  which 
communicates  itself  to  the  reader.” — New  York  hvenmg  Post. 

“ The  author  evidently  writes  from  careful  observation.” — North  A merican  Review. 

“Will  be  appreciated  by  those  who  like  a delicate  but  vigorous  style  and  a keen 
sense  of  humor  joined  to  a rare  gift  of  poTtraiture.”— Boston  '1  ranscript. 

ROM  BUSK  TO  DAWN.  By  Katharine 

Pearson  Woods,  author  of  “ Metzerott,  Shoemaker.”  i2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.25. 

“ Rarely,  indeed,  does  an  author  attain  to  such  wide  prominence  in  so  short  a time 
as  did  Katharine  Pearson  Woods  on  the  appearance  of  her  somewhat  socialistic  novel 
called  ‘ Metzerott,  Shoemaker.’  That  story,  however,  with  all  its  absorbing  power, 
gave  only  the  faintest  evidence  of  the  real  strength  that  has  hitherto  remained  latent, 
but  which  is  now  so  wonderfully  developed  in  her  latest  story,  ‘ From  Dusk  to  Dawn.’  ” 
— Baltimore  A merican. 

“The  author  has  not  only  successfully  interwoven  discussion  upon  religion  and  the 
occult  sciences,  but  she  has  handled  them  throughout  in  a masterly  manner,  predicating 
her  entire  familiarity  with  them.” — Boston  Cotnmercial  Bulletin. 

“If  a novel  may  be  called  orthodox,  this  book  is  entitled  to  come  under  that 
classification.” — San  Francisco  Call. 

OOTSTEP S OF  FATE.  By  Louis  Couperus, 

author  of  “ Eline  Vere.”  Translated  from  the  Dutch  by  Clara 
Bell.  With  an  Introduction  by  Edmund  Gosse.  Holland 
Fiction  Series.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.00. 

“ It  is  a very  remarkable  book,  and  can  not  fail  to  make  a profound  impression  by 
its  strength  and  originality.  ...  Its  interest  is  intense,  and  the  tragedy  with  which  it 
closes  is  depicted  yvith  remarkable  grace  and  passion.” — Boston  Saturday  Evening 
Gazette. 

“ A remarkable  study  of  the  theory  of  fatalism  and  its  effect  upon  the  human  mind, 
of  the  sophistical  reasoning  to  which  it  leads,  and  of  the  absolute  indifference  to  the 
fate  of  others  which  it  succeeds  in  establishing.  If  the  work  of  the  Dutch  Sensitivists, 
as  Edmund  Gosse  calls  them  in  his  preface,  is  maintained  on  such  a level  as  this,  their 
translation  into  English  is  a distinct  gain.” — The  Critic. 


New  York  : D.  APPLETON  & CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


N 


